


The Day The World Went Away

by Taffyberry



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Death, Emerald Nightmare, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Physical Trauma, Slavery, War, War Crimes, druid - freeform, garrosh is an asshole tbh, warcraft au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-05-24 18:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14960085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taffyberry/pseuds/Taffyberry
Summary: The horde has washed over Azeroth, leaving destruction in its wake. Stormwind is destroyed, the prince dead, and the king missing. The remaining alliance forces have gathered at the Exodar under the leadership of Jaina Proudmoore who has sworn to put an end to Garrosh and his horde. In response, Garrosh seeks stronger weapons, and more power to put the alliance down for good, and has his eyes set upon the former aspects. However, in the darkness, the nightmare stirs and dark creatures have begun bleeding into the waking world from the almost fully corrupted dream. There is no hope, but the alliance must find a way to survive, or Azeroth will be lost.





	1. Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> AU! Obviously haha. Just a small introductory chapter, the rest will be longer.  
> Just a warning... I like killing characters :D no one is safe

Oblivion. _Noun_. The state of being unaware or unconscious of what is happening around one; the state of being forgotten, especially by the public; destruction or extinction. Blackness, nothingness, devoid of anything. A gaping chasm; an abyss. 

King Varian Wrynn could apply many words to himself and to the world around him. _King_. He snorted. Could you be king when there was nothing left to be king of? His city was destroyed, his son was dead, his people were dead or enslaved, and it was his fault. Some king he was. Some father he had been. 

How had things come to this?

Jaina had been right, he thought bitterly, running his fingers through his long hair. They should have destroyed the horde back in Undercity, back when he had the chance. He had thought that plenty the past—well, he’d lost track of time somewhere after three months, and he was sure that was a very long time ago. He stayed away from anyone, kept to himself. To begin with he had vented his frustration and anger out by hunting orcs or trying to free humans or night elves from their slavers, but he’d long since given up on fighting back. They were too strong and what did he have left to fight for?

The tall grass was pissing him off and he wished dearly that he had a sword, or anything sharp to cut through it. He’d lost the knife he’d been using to hunt when he’d taken on a boar which had been stronger than it looked. It was a true mark of how far things had fallen when a boar had gotten the best of him. Varian was old, he felt old, and he was tired. He thought many times of walking up to Orgrimmar and just letting them kill him, but he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.

He had no idea where he was, honestly, he didn’t care. Everywhere looked the same now, either overgrown wilderness, or towns and cities razed and burned down to the ground by orcs, and in their place, orcish settlements had sprung up. Was there any resistance left? He doubted it, he’d also stopped caring, stopped paying attention. The last he’d heard was that Garrosh had killed Tyrande Whisperwind very slowly, very painfully, and very publicly before taking Malfurion Stormrage prisoner. All he’d heard was whispers and rumours, Orcs laughing at how she’d begged for her life, how she’d pleaded with Garrosh to stop his torture. Varian didn’t believe it; Tyrande would never have begged him, but he supposed he’d never know now.

The river he was following eventually opened into a lake, and he pulled off his boots and sat beside it, washing his sore feet and refilling his water canister. It was so quiet here. No sign of any orcs, any goblins. Nothing. His senses alerted him to something else, something watching him, but he didn’t care—if someone would kill him he’d welcome it, otherwise it was probably someone else trying to hide from the end of everything.

Varian didn’t much like just sitting around. He walked or hunted to keep his mind occupied, otherwise his thoughts would stray to his son. His throat tightened, and he gripped his cannister tightly. _Anduin_. The parent should not outlive the child, but here he was, the memory of the princes broken and lifeless body so clear as if it were in front of him still. That had been the start of everything. In his grief, he had hunted Garrosh without a thought, and had ultimately lost. Garrosh had left him alive, badly injured, wanting to make a spectacle and a show of it; to humiliate the one who could oppose him. Varian had wanted anything but that, to be used as some horde propaganda tool, and had thrown himself from the bluff they’d been on into a rushing river below. He had hoped it would sweep him to his death, but when he’d woken up with no notion of how much time had passed, he’d cursed out loud. As far as he knew, he was assumed dead by everyone.

Stormwind was the first to fall. He hadn’t been there, he should have been there. If he’d gone and protected his people—he had no idea what had happened. Was Genn alive? What about Jaina? Mia? Tess? Mathias? He figured if the spymaster was still breathing he would have managed to find the former king already. Or maybe he had, and maybe he was do disgusted and disappointed in the husk he’d become, the oblivion which lingered inside of him, that he didn’t dare bring him back. Or, the one Varian preferred, was that he was so angered by his king’s betrayal he was plotting his death to be slow and painful. He deserved that, he thought, drinking down some water deeply. He deserved to be punished, to suffer. A king should protect his people, his land, instead he’d let them all down.

The forest around him was wild and overgrown, he’d seen very few animals, but something stirred in its heart. He’d seen glimpses of horrendous, twisted monstrosities in the dark and had decided to avoid the thickest parts at all cost. He had no idea where he was, there were no ruins, no hint of any civilisation. Azeroth had become wild in the imbalance. He was no druid, he had no idea why it would, and yet he found it welcome. The thick jungles that began to pop up everywhere provided perfect shelter, perfect hunting grounds. To keep his mind occupied and away from thoughts of his son, Varian often planned ways to lure orcs within the forest to trap and ambush them. He didn’t plan on going through with them, but it was something to think about.

He gulped down water again, pausing when he realised something was off. 

There was no life in the water, and it seemed so clean, but it tasted off. Cautiously, he leaned closer and smelled it, recoiling instantly and throwing the cannister off into the lake. Poison? How? Had something died upstream and unleashed a poison into the lake? Or was it something else?

Varian didn’t feel good. His heart sped up, he felt hot, delirious and gasped out, using both of his hands to steady himself when his head spun. He’d welcome death, that was no lie, but he didn’t think dying by poison lake was exactly glamourous, nor was it the punishment he deserved. It was just nothing. He would die here and never be found. His body would waste away on the bank of the lake, and it would linger until no one could recognise him, and—he breathed, or tried to.

The end of the line.

He rested his head gently on the moss-covered rocks, trying to see if it would help stop the spinning, it was making him sick. He didn’t want to die being sick, that would suck. The coldness of the rock made him jump, however, and had he the strength, he would have stood up and found somewhere warmer, somewhere sunnier. Yet, instead, he lay there, breathing heavily and thinking about his regrets, all the things he should have done. Tiffin’s face, Anduin’s face. They’d gone to a good place, and he had no doubts that he wouldn’t go there. He’d done too much wrong, his soul did not belong where theirs had gone.

His eyes refused to focus on anything. One moment he saw moss, the next feet, then rocks, then feet again. Then they were gone, and then—someone was stood there. Maybe they would give him kindness he did not deserve and put him out of his misery, maybe they would end it for him. 

Varian gasped out, reaching his hand to grip tightly onto the ankle of one of the feet. He looked up, yet couldn’t quite make out a face or—was it someone who knew him? Or someone he knew? It was no orc, he knew that much. Snuffling made its way to his ears and he felt hot breath on his wrist—an animal? Perhaps this person had decided someone already dying would be decent enough prey and easy food for them and the animal. Perhaps he should warn them, perhaps he should tell them that whatever poison had gotten him was in his body, and yet he didn’t even try to. It would serve them right, he supposed. 

Slowly, Varian felt the world fade out from his sight. He tried thinking of Tiffin, of Anduin, of what the future should have been, anything to make peace in his last moments, but all he could think about was the face of that monster, laughing down at him, mocking him. 

Killed by water. That a ridiculous fate that was.


	2. Eyes Close and Heartbeats Slow

Near death experiences were things Varian had in abundance. It was part of being a warrior, part of being king, and he supposed Anduin would have added that it was also part of being reckless. Varian would laugh at him, giving him a wolfish grin, and putting his large hand on top of his son’s head. He would have to go at some point, he’d always hoped it would be in his bed and that the cause would be old age. That Anduin would be old enough to be able to process it properly, that his shoulders would be strong enough to bare the burden of king at that point. 

Now?

Now Varian didn’t have to worry about that. Anduin’s future was gone, it was never coming back. So many healers had tried. Varian had lost all faith that day, the world had gone dark. What was the light worth if it didn’t protect the brightest person whom existed? Nothing. It was worth nothing. 

It didn’t even matter anymore. The alliance was over, Stormwind was gone, you couldn’t be king of rubble, ashes, and the bones of people. He was dead, too, so why was he worrying about it. Being dead—

Well, it felt very much like being asleep, he thought. Like the first few minutes each day when you wake up and you’re not fully aware of anything, but your thoughts are more coherent-

Warm breath hit his face and Varian’s eyes shot open.

He was alive.

How?

The source of the breath was a great tiger. He was alarmed at first, wondering whether his death had just been delayed, but the beast licked his lips and remained sitting there, watching him with some form of amusement. He supposed this was the beast he’d felt on his arm when he’d—

The poison.

Varian sat up quickly, feeling rather dizzy, but wanting to find where he was, and who the feet belonged to. If they intended to kill him… then it seemed strange to save him first. Unless, perhaps, Garrosh had a bounty on his head, or the person though they could get more from him alive—

Yet if anyone else was there he could not tell.

It seemed he was in a tiger’s den, the grass and leaves below were squashed flat, and the branches above had been pulled to make a canopy to guard from any rain—that or they grew like that naturally. There wasn’t much space, so it wasn’t an army at least.

That thought relaxed him a little.

Varian considered the tiger. It was watching him carefully. “What is this place?” Yet of course it didn’t talk back, and instead purred loudly. “Never met a tiger who did not want easy prey.”

“Anya has a full belly and prefers the taste of Orcs.”

His eyes snapped to the voice. A woman approached, an elf. She was carrying a small deer and put it on the ground in front of him. She said nothing else, and instead bent down to look at it. The deer was injured, he realised, and she was healing it. A druid? Since when did high elves become druids? He’d never thought he’d see a high elf in a jungle looking so… so wild. Her blonde hair was thick and full of leaves and some twigs and tied back with some cord decorated with a few feathers, her feet were bare and he could see scratches and mud all over them. She was lithe and dressed in furs and leathers. He glanced around the camp; there was a quiver of arrows nearby with a long bow that reminded him very much of the bow Tyrande used to use. Also adorned with feathers and leaves. A hunter or a druid?

There was no mistaking the magic with which she healed the animal. He supposed she had cleansed the poison from his system, too. Why?

“Who are you?” he asked, aware of the tiger ‘Anya’s’ eyes still upon him.

The elf didn’t reply, instead focusing on the animal. There were other animals, too, he noted. There was a sentinel owl on a branch nearby sleeping, and he was certain he could hear other cats. Even if he had a weapon, attacking her would have been useless; he would have been mauled to shreds before he could get close.

“Are we in night elf territory?” he muttered.

She snorted. “There is no such thing as night elf territory anymore or are you that oblivious?” she glanced over at him. “Didn’t you check the water first to see if there was life in it? Or do you have a deathwish?”

Varian thought. He supposed he did but… poisoned water wasn’t a good way to go. “What poisoned it?”

The elf sighed, turning back to the deer as it jumped to its feet. It nuzzled into her hand, before jumping off back into the forest.He guessed she could have been a hunter very gifted in curing other animals, but, there was something else about her entirely. Something… familiar, too.

“Orcs,” She said simply. 

“How?”

“I don’t know,” She snapped. “They don’t talk much, I just kill them. I wouldn’t degrade myself into using their disgusting language anyway.”

“Who are you?”he asked again. 

“Who are you?” she shot back, now looking at him again. She was mocking him, he knew, the expression on her face told him she knew who he was perfectly well. “What does it matter who I am? I healed you, you have your life whether or not you wish it so, now you can rest then leave and carry on doing whatever it was you were doing.”

“You seem familiar,” he pressed. “Have you ever been to Stormwind?”

“No, I have never been there,” She muttered. 

Then how could he have possibly met her before? Maybe he hadn’t, maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. “Where are we?”

“This used to be Feralas,” She murmured. “But it grew wildly when Orcs tried to encroach on this territory. I blame the tauren druids who used too much magic here trying to protect it from Garrosh,” She snorted, she said the word with venom, as though if he were there, she would have ripped his throat out. No, Varian thought, that’s exactly what she would do if she could. 

“What happened to them?”

She gave a shrill laugh, brushing some of her hair from her face. “What happens to anyone who defies Garrosh, you mean? They end up dead or enslaved in his war machine. You are very uniformed for a king.”

“I’m no king.”

“True,” She countered. “That would require a kingdom for you to be king of. You do realise Jaina Proudmoore hunted for you for quite some time, right?”

“Why?”

“I suppose she thought you’d be able to stop Garrosh,” She shrugged. “When he killed Tyrande-“ she went quiet. Mournful, he noted. The look on her face he guessed was the same look he got when he thought of Anduin’s body—so much pain that he never entirely processed it and didn’t think he’d ever be done dealing with it. “After that most people lost all hope.”

Where were they now? Varian didn’t want to know, so he didn’t ask. Instead he watched her. She’d been close to Tyrande, obviously, but how and why? Something tugged at his memory. Darnassus, many, many, many years ago. Shortly after the cataclysm, he thought. He’d gone at the request of Malfurion Stormrage who wished to gather the leaders to discuss the threat before them. Thrall had been there. He paused. What happened to Thrall? Varian didn’t care, the orc could burn. This was his fault, they’d all warned him about Garrosh and he hadn’t listened.

“I know you,” he said suddenly. “I remember the high elf who lived within Darnassus.”

“That doesn’t mean you know me,” she sighed. She looked remorseful, he thought, as though she’d tried to rid herself of that past. She didn’t want to belong to that. He could understand. If he could forget his past, become a new person, he would have welcomed it. “I am Chantari,” she whispered, looking back out towards the forest. “And yes, we met briefly. I was present at the meeting after the Cataclysm at the request of Tyrande.” Her voice went quiet.

Yes, he remembered. The two had been close. Tyrande wasn’t a jovial person, she was always serious and severe and wild. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to protect her people, and yet with this woman there had been a softer side. She’d not spoken much during that meeting, only to elaborate more on the things Malfurion had explained. He had paid no attention, druidic magic confused him. He just wanted to be pointed at the thing he should attack and do it; he didn’t care about magic or healing, that was for others to worry about and understand.

“I’ve never known a druid to use a bow.”

Chantari let out a frustrated sigh and stood up in one graceful move. “Why are you still talking? Small talk is that it?” she turned to him, her face a pale fury. “Do you wish to discuss the weather next? Yes, I healed you with druidic magic. Does it even matter?”

He felt as though he was being scolded like a small child, but he didn’t quite know what he’d done wrong. Did she blame him for Tyrande’s death, was that it? He supposed he should accept it, it was in some way’s his fault, he deserved this. 

“I suggest you rest, Varian Wrynn, the night will be a cold one. Tomorrow you can leave and return to doing nothing or seeking your death. I care not. Unless you intend to carry on with your talking,” she shot him a look. “In which case you will leave now.”

What had happened to her? Not that he knew her in the past, but he remembered that she’d been a voice of positivity when she had spoken, that she was always smiling. Now--… a smile would be out of place on the face of this woman.

War, he supposed. War happened. Garrosh happened. 

“Do we need to keep watch?”

Chantari shot him a look and pursed her lips, but decided it was, at least, a fair question to ask. A sensible one. “No. The orc’s can’t navigate these forests well, to get through they burn it,” her voice was disgusted. “The animals will see them first and then I would know long before they got here.” She let out a long sigh, hunched over what he supposed was a firepit. It didn’t look as though it got much use and he wondered if she perhaps just curled up with the tiger, or the other animals for warmth. Instead she bent over and lit it, moving back to sit by the side.

She took her bow and quiver in her hands and began fletching some more arrows. She was methodical about it, making sure they were all the same shape, shame size, same weight. He was content to watch her, yet he wanted to talk. So long without the contact of another person… he hadn’t realised he’d been craving it so much. Did she hate him? Did she blame him for everything?

“You can sleep there,” She motioned, pointing to where he’d woken up. “Anya won’t move, but she won’t hurt you and I daresay you’ll be thankful for her warmth.”

Varian snorted. “I won’t get that cold.”

She gave him a disbelieving look.

“And where will you sleep? And how will you keep warm?”

Again, Chantari’s lips pursed out and she looked up from her work. Was she about to yell at him? Or force him out? It seemed unfair of her to do so, he’d only asked genuine questions. “I do not sleep,” she answered simply. “And I do not get cold like you.”

“What is that? Some sort of high elf super power I didn’t know about?”

She laughed and he watched her, completely amiss on the joke she found so funny. Beside him, Anya let out a loud purr and stretched to lie right next to him. Well, the animal seemed to like him at least. “It’s not a _high elf_ thing, no,” she said, looking quite amused. “I still need sleep.”

“So why don’t you?”

A troubled expression came over her face, and then a saddened one. She put down her work fully and stared up at the sky, a small break within the canopy of branches. There were no stars, it was just black. Endless. “It’s dangerous for me, for any druid to sleep. With Malfurion taken by Garrosh, and Archdruid Runetotem killed when he tried to save Tauren children, there were few druids powerful enough to fight the corruption. Many of the druids still in the dream fell to the nightmare. It spread quickly.”

“That explains the strange creatures.”

“Yes,” she answered. “The nightmare is bleeding into this world, using the discord Garrosh has sewn as a way in. It is but a blessing that Lady Ysera is still with us at least. Whether she is dreaming or has retreated to Wyrmrest I do not know.”

“How do you know she’s not been corrupted?”

“I just do,” she snapped, and then sighed. “Because there are no huge dragons of nightmare flying anywhere. Some of the green flight would have been corrupted, I have no doubt, but her power… even after becoming mortal-“ she sighed, rubbing her hands out of worry. There was a crease, just above her nose as she drifted off to her thoughts. He didn’t disturb her, he didn’t ask. He didn’t need to be told they were essentially, well, fucked. Even if they dealt with Garrosh they’d have this nightmare to contend with, perhaps they’d get lucky and Garrosh and the Nightmare would take each other out. Or, perhaps what seemed more likely, is they’d work together. The Orc’s had taken dragon’s in the past to conduct dark experiments on at the bequest of the black dragons, what difference would it be if it was nightmare corrupted green dragons they worked with?

He wanted to say it could be worse, but he didn’t know how it could be. His jaw set in a grim line and he clenched his fists tightly. His fault. “Do you blame me?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said so quickly he was sure it was a lie. “No, I don’t,” she repeated after, looking calmer. She stood up and moved around the camp—his eyes were adjusting to the dark and he was able to pick up things he’d not noticed before. A sentinel glaive, a feydragon sleeping on a nest, afew crates of supplies that had both the horde and the alliance seals on them. Chantari stopped in front of him, offering him a cannister of water which he took thankfully. “I can’t change the past. No matter what you did or didn’t do, Garrosh chose to do the things he did of his own accord. It was his hands, his words, his orders—he is the one at fault. All the orcs who follow him blindly without questioning him—” She growled, clenching her fists. She looked feral, wild. This was how Tyrande always seemed when she thought her people were in danger. “Killing them won’t bring my Tyrande back, but it makes me feel better. There’s nothing I can do. We’re all going to die, be it to Garrosh or to the Nightmare.”

“A miracle could happen.” He didn’t believe it, so he didn’t know why he’d said it.

Chantari snorted. “The only good thing to come of this is that the alliance and the horde finally get along. Ironic, isn’t it?” she stared at him, almost peering into his soul. She had old eyes, he decided. Eyes that had seen much more than he had. Elves were like that, but… but this was more. Who was she? What was she?

“Do you know what happened to Genn?”

“He died,” She said simply. “Tess was killed during Garrosh’s siege on Orgrimmar. He tried to protect Tyrande and the night elves later on, but Garrosh just… threw him aside. Then he walked, just walked, to Tyrande. My Tyrande-“ She roared, kicking a small crate into a tree and watching it shatter to pieces. “I was within the dream when it happened, I could sense it. A few of us woke up to a very different world. We tried to rouse the others but most of them wouldn’t awaken. The nightmare slowly started corrupting the world tree-“ she stared at him, looking broken, looking as though all hope had gone. “I was the last to leave Hyjal before the orcs set fire to it and began to fight against the creatures of the nightmare. My beloved Nordrassil.”

Varian didn’t understand th elves and their trees, but he understood this. Nordrassil had been her home, and not only had it been destroyed, but it had become a source of evil. He didn’t know much, but he had at least taken onboard from Malfurion’s speeches about the nightmare, that a world tree falling to such corruption was a terrible fate for all Azeroth.

“What about Teldrassil?”

“Goblins,” she sneered. “The water around it is full of oil and wastage. All the trees are gone, the animals gone. They’re awful little creatures.”

He thought to ask about Jaina and the others but—he heaved a sigh and she went back to her arrows. He watched her for a time, wondering whether to ask her, but sleep felt so good and he had to admit, the warmth of the great tiger beside him certainly seemed compelling. The tiger, Anya, was purring softly in her sleep. Entirely tame.

Yet even as he lay down, he found sleep didn’t come. He should be dead, and he wasn’t—and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. When he left tomorrow, where would he go? To seek his death elsewhere? Perhaps he’d find a death that suited him, or else, just give up. He was sure he could find a better poison than the one from the water, one that would let him go as he slept. He shuddered. “Why did you save me?”

Chantari looked over at him, brow knotting together as she considered her answer. “I don’t know, Varian Wrynn. Perhaps Goldrinn compelled me to.”

The man snorted. “The wolf abandoned me.”

“The ancients abandoned us all,” she said quietly. “They had no choice but to. When Nordrassil-“ She frowned, clenching her hands tightly around the arrow.

“What are you even doing out here?”

“Hunting,” she said simply.

“To what end?”

She shrugged, looking down. She didn’t know—where was she going? Planning to take out as many Orc’s as she could before she went? It seemed reasonable, in fact she was certain it was the only path forward. 

“You could go to the alliance.”

She shot him a stern look, a tight-lipped grimace forming upon her face. “ _You_ could go to the alliance.”

Varian would have laughed, in any other situation they would both be laughing. But laughter had gone, there was none left in the world. He thought of Anduin and closed his eyes. He could hear Anya’s breathing mixed with purrs, Chantari’s hands working quickly, the soft hoot of an owl. Then, as he felt sleep begin to wash over him, she paused her work. “There is nothing left in this world, Varian. Perhaps even we are remnants which no longer belong.”

Did he believe that?

He wasn’t sure, but the idea disturbed him anyway. Varian considered the alliance. He should seek them out, put right some of his wrongs but—but he was ashamed. Deeply ashamed. He’d failed to protect his son, and in turn he’d failed to protect his people. And, rather than come back from the dead and rally straight to the survivors, he’d hidden like a coward and given up on the world. Pathetic. He was pathetic, but he didn’t have it in him to do anything else.

If he could have, he would have slept in that warm spot for the rest of what he hoped would be a short life.


	3. Sunrise Has Forsaken All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll be more exciting from next chapter, promise!

How do you fight the cold abyss of the world?

Not the people in it, not the landscape, not the physicality’s of life, but the world itself. The pressure, the gaping holes that appear to follow you after you do one thing grievously wrong; always there to remind you, to never let you get a reprieve. How do you fight that? How do you fix it when you’re too scared to? When every time you stop being busy, all your wrongs and failures appear in front of you? Every anxious thought? Ever shaky breath in the cold, dark night, every shaky hand as you force a smile—

How do you fight that?

Chantari’s lips were firm.

Once upon a time she had enjoyed the sunrise. Once upon a time she’d been hopeful; bright, positive. The type of person who saw the good in anything, who could point out the beauty in the direst of circumstances. She hadn’t seen anything beautiful in so long, she’d had no hope in so long and it had changed the world. Changed her. There was no more laughter. No more late-night walks with her best friend, no more strange human foods—chocolate was her favourite—to sample. There was nothing ahead of her, ahead of anyone. Just oblivion. A pit in front of them, waiting for them to jump in.

Why was she delaying it? To take out as many of the orcs before she gave up fully?

Mornings were cold ever since Tyrande had been killed. She’d not felt Elune’s light at night for a long time, either. Everything was cold, dark. She had no idea what to do, where to go, what was right. What _was_ right?

Her bright blue eyes took in the sleeping king and she frowned, chipping away at a piece of wood with her pocket knife. She should wake up, get rid of him. He was a reminder of a past she hadn’t been able to protect, one she no longer wanted to remember, one which hurt too much. She wanted to kill the past, to just let it go; but, how could she? Every time she stopped doing anything—

The day she’d first met Tyrande, or gossiping with Taurens, fighting the firelord with her friends, getting up to mischief with Mylune—

The elf rubbed her hands together and stood gracefully in one movement. The great tiger rolled onto her back beside the king and cracked an eye open. “Sleepy head,” she muttered, bending down beside them and knotting her fingers into Anya’s fur. “What do I do about him, huh?”

Anya purred, giving her a lop-sided type of grin. She liked the king, or maybe she just liked having someone to sleep with again. She always fussed the huntress to sleep but it was impossible. When she did sleep—well it had been a long time, and she’d barely woken up.

“Varian,” she murmured. “It’s morning.”

He didn’t stir, and she sighed, doubting he’d had a proper nights sleep in a long time. Time hadn’t been kind to him, not since she’d last seen him. He’d been rugged, she’d found it quite appealing if not intimidating, but he had seemed so youthful still; so full of life. Now? Now he was old. Time worn, screwed up like a piece of parchment and thrown aside over and over—his hair was long and thick and wild, there was a great deal of stubble on his face to which she had to question how he’d been shaving. He had no weapon—should she find him one? He looked thinner too, but then again, living off the land and always being on the move would do that to you. She’d lost weight too.

“Go catch us breakfast,” she murmured to the tiger.“I’ll find him a weapon.”

Why? She should send him off. Maybe she still would, just… she didn’t want him to be unarmed.

She’d stolen a lot of supplies from orc caravans the past few months. They were a mix of horde and alliance; a lot of them she intended to return to the alliance at some point, especially the medical supplies and the food rations, but she just… couldn’t bring herself to go near them. That they were still fighting, all gathered together and planning—they didn’t know the truth of how hopeless it was. Even if they defeated Garrosh—

What was left of the world even if they did?

He’d broken the world. Broken its people.

The peacefully sleeping king beside her attested to that.

A once proud, strong, tall-standing man had been reduced to this. Crawling around in the wilds, waiting for a death that befit him. Her lips closed tighter and he turned to rummage through some of the weapons she’d scavenged up.

What had happened to Shalamayne? Had he lost it? She couldn’t imagine he’d have willingly part with it—she paused, but then pushed the thoughts aside. Perhaps she should have been quieter, allow him to sleep, but the whole situation—somehow it just made her so angry and so frustrated—

Chantari threw a plate helmet across the camp and let out a cry of frustration.

It hit a tree with a loud clatter and she heard Varian wake and jump up with a startled cry.

She took a few moments to take in a few deep breaths and then sighed, looking away from him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Is it morning?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, moving to the firepit to start it up. “Anya went to hunt us food. There’s a few weapons in that pile you might like before you go.”

He stared at her, trying to process her words under the layers of sleep that still consumed him. It had been a blissful sleep, one he’d needed so badly—to be awoken so suddenly… He supposed it was a good thing. It did no good to daydream of better times, it did nothing to fix whatever situation. “Why ae you giving me a weapon?”

“Would you rather go without one?” she hissed. “Stop asking questions.”

He muttered. “You don’t have to be so hostile with me.”

Chantari inhaled, snapping a branch in her hands. “I’ll let you die next time.”

“And that gives you the right to be a-“ he broke off.

“Be a what?” she snapped, looking back at him. “Say it.”

“A cold hearted bitch.”

She glared at him, her stare icey and full of contempt. He wasn’t wrong, how could she fight him on that? She sighed instead, feeling as though she should just—

Chantari looked up at the small opening though the trees to the grey sky. It never seemed blue anymore, not where she was, not how she saw it. “Do you ever think it would be easier to just give up?”

Varian blinked in surprise and confusion at her change, before moving to sit at the fire pit near her. He watched the flames illuminate her face. He remembered she’d had a youthful look to her, full cheeks, bright, wide eyes. There was nothing left of that. “Of course.”

The elf continued to stare at the sky for a few moments, before she closed her eyes. Anya crept into camp again, dragging behind her a large deer carcass. She didn’t disturb her ‘master’ though, instead curling up right next to her, eyes watching her carefully. Suddenly she looked over at him, a strange look upon her face, as though she’d had an epiphany but hadn’t quite realised it yet. “Do you feel like hunting some orcs?”

He didn’t hesitate in his reply; the answer fell from his lips before he even thought them. “Of course,” he said. Hunting those beasts did feel like a good idea; they both needed to vent a lot of emotions it seemed, and if this is how she blew off steam, well, he wasn’t about to turn down the idea either. He felt as though he should say something else, something ‘kingly’ to inspire her, but… it would be false. He didn’t believe it, so how could he say it? “Anduin would know what to do right now,” he muttered.

She considered him. “I heard about him from Shan’do Stormrage and Tyrande, they said he had a good effect on you.”

Varian laughed deeply in his chest, somewhat entranced as she worked on preparing the deer for them. His stomach grumbled; how long had it been since he’d had an actual meal that wasn’t berries and mushrooms? He could have hunted, could have prepared and cooked it, but he’d never been able to risk a fire. This place… it seemed like a sanctuary. “The kid was obnoxiously bright.”

“Hmm,” she stared at him, then went back to her work, being as methodical as she’d been with her arrows. “If you could go back in time and change one thing, what would you change?”

“Why? You know a bronze dragon who could do it?”

Chantari chuckled, a husky sound from her throat. “They wouldn’t change time, it would break the time ways. Nozdormu would be appalled.”

“Even if this was the future?”

Her lips pursed. “I happen to know a certain gnome who would probably have tried to change time a few times by now,” her shoulders fell. “I don’t think they can do anything.”

Varian watched her. Just who was she? “Do you have any family left?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I have a large family, but I don’t know what my brothers and sisters-“ she gulped. “My mother is alive, I know that much.”

“Where is she?”

“Hopefully far away from all this mess,” she whispered, though it sounded much like a hopeless plea.

“No husband or kids?”

Chantari shook her head, smiling somewhat. “My dating life has been very inactive. I dated one girl for a time-“ she laughed at his face, though it was hollow. “But it didn’t really work. There were a few guys but… one of them-“ she grimaced. “Fell for a human, and the others… didn’t work out either.”

Elves were old; had she been alone all this time? He didn’t know what was worse, the absence of Tiffin and Anduin all together, or losing her and then later losing him? He supposed the first. Even though Tiffin’s death had destroyed him, at least he’d had the time with her, and Anduin as a reminder of her. He’d have taken those things over being entirely alone, never having known love like that.

“I’ve seen war before,” she said suddenly. “A lot of times, but never like this,” she eyed him up, looking quite cautious about her words. “I was quite young when the orcs came through the portal but I remember it. But it was so different… Garrosh is just….”

“Out of control,” he breathed. “Where is Thrall?”

Chantari snorted. “I have no idea. Last I heard he wasn’t at the Exodar with the rest of the alliance,” she rubbed her forehead. “Baine Bloodhoof went to find him, but he went missing, too.”

Varian’s stomach growled again as she threw the meat onto the fire pit, then gave the rest of the animal to Anya, who purred happily as her large jaws chomped down at the flesh. “Maybe they’re out here like us. I went missing too.”

“As uplifting as a fated reunion in the woods would be, Varian, I think it’s more likely that he ran away.”

“I ran away too,” he pointed out. “I failed my people.”

She didn’t comment, instead she hugged her knees to her chest. No one had ever said the end of the world would be so cold, so lonely. What she wouldn’t give for the touch of another living creature right then. Just something warm, with no emotional attachments, just—just something to tear her from the precipice on which she stood. Chantari sighed. “After we eat, we hunt,” she murmured. “There is a hunting party of orcs to the North, I was watching them before I found you.”

“What are they hunting?”

“Night Elves,” she answered. “They hid within the forests after they watched Tyrande be murdered. Some of them went to the alliance, some even went to Sylvanas-“ She smirked lightly at his shock. “I can’t stand that woman, but she’s leading a large horde resistance against Garrosh. Some of the alliance went to her rather than Jaina.”

“Why?” he breathed out.

“I don’t know,” She admitted. “Maybe because the undercity is more defensible than the exodar?” she shook her head. “Or because it’s further away, or that she still has her fleet and her army, and she’s won frequent skirmishes with Garrosh’s army. Jaina has very little to work with, she has Kalecgos, Velen… But the blue dragons have mostly lost their powers. Vereesa was with her, too, but she could have gone to her sister since.”

“You are very well informed for someone who stays away from people,” he muttered.

Chantari let out a low whistle, and a raven flew down from a branch. She instantly dug into a pocket to pull out some seed and offered it to the bird. She was making low sounds in a language he didn’t really know—he supposed some sort of druidic language or whatever—and then the bird flew off. “Animals have a lot to say. They see everything. Someone like Garrosh is too arrogant to even consider them enemies, the birds, the rats and mice that infiltrate his camp and his city… he is at their mercy and he doesn’t know it.” The elf rested her chin on the top of her knees, digging her fingers into the flesh of her legs. “I’ll only stay here for a few more weeks. Then I’m going to try and get across the ocean. Garrosh hasn’t touched Northrend aside from resources. I wouldn’t mind living out my last week’s there.”

The king’s brow knotted tightly as he thought about it. She’d run off to die somewhere peacefully. He didn’t think he could say anything or judge her for that—he’d probably make the same choices but—

But maybe they should stay and fight. If they were going to die anyway, why not do it on the battlefield, toe to toe with Garrosh and his army? Varian breathed in, the scent of the cooking meat filling his lungs and he licked his lips hungrily. “I want to go to Stormwind.”

“What’s left of it,” she murmured.

“Have you been there?”

“Yes, for a time I was tracking Garrosh to find Shan’Do Stormrage, he lingered there for some time, basking in his ‘victory’,” she snorted, pulling the meat from the fire. She stared at it for a moment, seeming amused by something. “I don’t normally cook with a fire, I hope it’s okay,” she said, offering him some.

“You eat it raw?”

Chantari paused, a strange smile upon her face.

“And how did you become a druid?”

A chuckle came from her throat as she leaned back against Anya. “Perhaps I’ll tell you those stories another time, Wrynn. For now, just enjoy your food. We have some orcs to hunt.”


	4. Needing

Without any thought, two months passed easily and quickly.

Chantari was not used to days passing quick anymore, nor was she used to constant company, but Varian had become a permanent fixture. So much for her moving on, instead they’d stayed within the forest of Feralas, hunting any orcs which came close. It was quite… invigorating, she supposed the word was, to see him fight and to fight with him. It was those times, watching him shed orc blood, that she saw the king in him. The fierce warrior she heard stories about.

As it turned out, his company was not that unwelcome. They worked well with each other, and they both would talk the other out of a stupor if they fell into one. He had nightmares, too, though his were of a different variety. So they took it in turns to sleep, and while she was in danger of falling into the nightmare, Varian was good at waking her up every hour or so, so that she didn’t fall into a deep enough sleep.

Anya liked Varian too, so she supposed that was why she’d let him stay around so long.

She had forgotten what human contact had been like. How… nice it was to have someone there to just talk to. She found herself laughing more—one time he’d been trying to follow her up a tree, and he’d done quite well to begin with, until he’d stood on a branch he was much too heavy for. It collapsed beneath him, and he fell into the water. In her vigorous laughter, Chantari had fallen off and into the water too.

They both knew they should leave, go to the alliance, even to the horde—go somewhere. But the world outside Feralas wasn’t their world, it wasn’t the world they’d built on this… whatever it was they were doing. It was simple, wake up, eat, hunt, eat, hunt some more or build up the camp, wash, eat, sleep. Some days they went hunting for a few days at a time, moving closer into Desolace, but the centaurs were in uproar. It seemed the nightmare had taken a deep hold there.

“We need to find a way to cure it,” Chantari said, looking troubled on their way back. Anya purred deeply beside her.

“We?” Varian snorted. “I’m no druid.”

“You can leave at any time,” she said simply, though she hoped he wouldn’t. Her head screamed danger at her. Developing any form of feelings for him was dangerous. Hadn’t she promised herself when this started she would no longer form attachments to things? To people? This world was dying, its people were doomed… why love when it would all go away?

It was very hard to tear herself from him, though. Every day that went by it got harder. He was what she needed, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

Varian considered her statement. “Where do we even start? Garrosh… the nightmare?” he snorted. “I suppose we should find Jaina.”

Chantari smiled at him but said nothing. That he was considering going back said much more. When had it happened, she wondered. When had he stopped wanting to run away? And why had his mind changed? She snorted when he stumbled on his footing. He was large, not graceful nor made for forests like these, not like she was. “Careful.”

“I don’t know how you elves do it,” he sighed.

She felt guilty suddenly, like she should—her brow knotted in confusion at herself. Really? This was what she would feel? He’d gotten too close. She should push him away, tell him to leave, tell him she had to leave. “Varian, I-“

“Shh,” he said quickly, grabbing her and pulling her down behind some bushes. She landed with an ‘oof’, trying to pay attention to whatever he was hearing but all her sensitive ears could pick up was his breathing as he loomed above her.

All she could do was stare at him, his handsome face. It was old, rugged, but—Chantari’s stomach knotted. Bad idea. Very bad idea. She should push him away, get rid of him. Yet instead she put her hands on his shoulders. Night was setting in, and it got cold at night. She should stop, but—there were plenty of things she should do that she didn’t.

She couldn’t think of a single reason to stop, right then she didn’t care about the pain, about how this could end. The only way it would end, all she could think about was how close he was to her, how his breath hit her face, how his heartbeat was loud in her ears, about how his eyes bore into hers.

Then, suddenly after a pause, their lips were joined.

Perhaps it was the fact they’d both been without human company for so long, perhaps it was the loneliness, or the coldness of the night. Perhaps they had actual feelings, or perhaps it was the heat of the moment. But she didn’t stop him. Not even when it occurred to her that if something was out there, it could hear her, hear him—probably smell them. The scent of sex was not a new one to her, but it was one she was not used to smelling upon herself.

Yet she found it suited her as she lay beside him in the grass. They were both shirtless, her arm wrapped lazily over his chest. The moon was above them—mother moon. She moved to stare up at it. She hadn’t seen it in so long, not this bright, not this close.

She should speak. Tell him it meant nothing, that she was just cold and lonely. Yet, instead, Chantari tucked into the king’s side and he held her there. No words passed between them as she fell asleep.

* * *

 

Jaina Proudmoore was a good leader.

At least, that was what Kalec kept saying. Every time he flittered behind her while she scoured the library within the Exodar for any ideas. She’d looked over and over, yet she still hoped to come across some knowledge. There had to be a way to beat Garrosh back. For Anduin, for Varian, for Genn, for Tyrande—for all the people he’d killed. It made her blood boil.

But now… now she had another reason, too.

The future.

Her hand came to rest on her slightly rounded stomach. A baby, in this mess, in this world. It seemed cruel somehow, and yet she vowed to herself, to Kalec, to anyone who would listen that she, that they, would not bring children into this dying world. They would push the orcs back, they would stop Garrosh. She promised them, promised herself.

“Stop worrying,” Kalec’s voice came from the door.

“How can I not?” she asked, shoulders falling. “I still wonder what happened to Varian. Mathias is still tracking him… but its as though he just vanished.”

“Maybe he needs time,” her lover said softly, rubbing her arms to warm her up. She was always cold recently. It somehow amused him, that the incident in Theramorehad left her unable to bare children, and yet, it made her perfectly suited to have his children. It should have been a time of joy, he should have been meeting her at the end of an aisle, marrying her, doing it properly—but there was no time for formalities anymore.

“We don’t have time,” She said, echoing his thoughts. “We need him back. Every time I see the faces of those left….”

“They look at you and feel hope,” he said.

“No,” Jaina sighed, shaking her head. “I am not the one to lead them, they need their king back. They look at me and all they hope is that I have good news. I never have good news. Supplies are low, and the Orcs have cut off most of the supply routes. Mathias is stuck somewhere across the sea. A ship hasn’t returned in weeks.”

“We need to keep-“

“Believing?” she asked, turning to look up at him. “Hoping? Kalec, we have no time. Garrosh’s army gets closer and closer. We don’t have an army of our own. My inaction already brought us to this point-“ She breathed in, clenching her fist tightly. If she’d acted sooner…. “Right now, I’ll take any plan I can get that will at least get our supply routes back.”

He had no words for her. He never did, not anymore. He just felt a desperation; he had to protect her, protect their unborn child. He’d take her far away if he had to, find somewhere untouched by him on this planet, somewhere he couldn’t get them. “I’ll get your advisors to think of something,” he murmured, kissing her cheek. She smiled at him.

* * *

 

The Tirisfal Glades had never been more alive—literally.

Not only was it home to forsaken, but elves and, to many of their surprise, a lot of humans had come seeking refuge. The Undercity was defensible against Garrosh, he’d yet to win a skirmish against the banshee queen’s growing army. Sylvanas grew bolder every time, taking more of the land back. First Silverpine, and now, slowly, Hillsbrad. At first, she’d been hesitant about the living amongst them, but even she had to admit they needed help. It had surprised her to see they could cohabit so well, it gave her something she hadn’t felt in a while; hope.

Hope for the future of her people.

If they survived this, they would have a place in the world. They would no longer be shunned by the living. If she could secure their future, that was. They had to contend with Garrosh first, and then the issue of her people being unable to reproduce. She had to find a way; but how did you fight time? The Valkyr could only do so much.

Perhaps the greatest surprise turning up on her doorstep had been her sister and her nephews.

Adapting was difficult, not just for her, but for all of her people. Yet there was hope. She saw it in their faces, every time she watched families reunited. It felt like an empty victory, she had to confess, part of her wished she could have taken out the alliance herself but she would settle for Garrosh.

There was little of the horde left. Blood Elves had come to the forsaken. The tauren had almost all been wiped out fighting for their home, the trolls were enslaved or killed. The goblins? Sylvanas snorted. Those greasy little shits went with the highest bidder, and right now that was Garrosh. Not for long, she thought. As for the orcs—her lips turned into a firm line as she walked through the royal quarter to her chambers, her heels clacking on the floor and deathguards saluting as she passed—those who had disagreed with him hadn’t even been kept as slaves. They’d just been killed. Saurfang had died trying to kill him. A shame, really, she felt, he’d have made such a good corpse to raise.

The queen froze when she entered her chambers, sensing something out of place. A soft breeze, and then—“Nathanos,” she breathed out.

War had a way of bringing people together, it seemed. She didn’t care for him—or hadn’t—it was a gey line. She thought she did, she certainly never pushed him away, she never flinched at his touch anymore. It was always in the back of her mind that they would die, for good this time, perhaps that was it. It wasn’t worth pushing down feelings of need just out of pride.

Besides, what was weak about it? She had a man, a strong man, at her beck and call. He took care of every whim she wanted, begged her if he wanted him to. She enjoyed having something to exert her dominance over, and yet something soft all at once. Things no one else saw, the fingers brushing the back of her hand, the gentle touch on the small of her back, kisses along her jaw, the warmth in his red eyes—yes—there was no revulsion there. He was completely enamoured with her.

“I have intel for you,” he said, finding it amusing that he’d taken her by surprise. He pulled out a roll of parchment from his top and held it up. “The alliance trade routes have been cut off. Garrosh is focused on getting them out.”

“He’s distracted,” she murmured. “But-“

“But if we attack it would likely save the alliance.”

Sylvanas shook her head, disregarding the plan instantly. “I will beat him in warfare, but I can wait. I am patient,” she paused, looking him up and down. He agreed and nodded, content. “I don’t need alliance to distract him. When I have his full attention and I still take him down it will be a greater victory.”

“I agree, my queen,” he said, putting the parchment on her desk and moving closer.

“I do like the way you say that,” she murmured, her eyes taking him in hungrily.

“My queen,” he said again, eyes dropping to her lips.

Perhaps, what Sylvanas liked most about this, was that the nights of closeness they had would take her mind from everything. There was no Garrosh, no army, no war, no alliance. No impending doom. She was not queen of people scared every day for their existence. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she felt as though she were warm flesh and blood again, that they were lounging somewhere in the forests of Quel’Thalas, the golden trees above them. Tonight was one of those nights.

* * *

 

Garrosh Hellscream.

Tyrant. Murderer. Leader. Warmonger. Monster. Revolutionary. Reclaimer.

He was called many things, praise from those who followed willingly. Spat words from those he dominated. Yet where were they now? He grunted. Dead, or part of his war machine. _He_ was the one with the empire, the vast army. Nothing could stop him.

The orc stared down at his prisoner, feeling quite proud of this one pet he’d picked up. He was so broken, he had been since he’d killed his little mate in front of him. “The alliance is all but done for,” he grunted. “How does that make you feel?”

Malfurion sighed. Feel? He didn’t feel anything anymore. He’d given up. He didn’t care about Garrosh, all he cared about anymore was Tyrande. His Tyrande. Oh, how he missed her, but he’d failed her. And now the nightmare--…

Of course, Garrosh wouldn’t listen. Even the tauren druids he’d taken tried to impress on him the utter urgency of the nightmare, but he wouldn’t have it. He was too focused on crushing what was left of the alliance, and then he would set his sights upon Sylvanas’ army. He was an arrogant fool. So what if he dominated everything? Soon there would be nothing left. He would not be able to fight against the nightmare.

Was this really their fate?

There was no coming back from this, not that he could see. It would take a miracale.

Garrosh grinned with malicious glee. “I hear the leader is with child.” Malfurion twitched; Jaina? “Not that it matters, it will just make her weaker,” he sighed, peering down over his people. Orgimmar went on for as far as his eyes could see now, most of it dedicated to his war machine. His unstoppable army. “I think I’ll take her mate,” he mused. “I’ve always wanted a dragon.”

“Kalecgos won’t bend to your will, monster.”

The orc laughed deeply, glee filling his chest. It had been a long time since he’d said anything back to him. “He will, and after I’m done with the alliance, and done with Sylvanas, I’ll hunt down the aspects. Their power will be mine, too. There will be no one left to challenge me.”

“Monster.”

“Yes,” Garrosh mused, grabbing Malfurions chin and staring down at him with glee. “But who is the one on top of the world right now?”

“There’s always someone to stop the monster,” the arch druid muttered. Was there? No, no he didn’t think that. Not anymore.

Another grunt. “Varian is nowhere in sight. Who else is there, hmm? Sylvanas? She is deluded, thinking she has the upper hand. She’s not encountered the full might of my army-“ he grinned evily, dropping the elf and rubbing his hands together. “Let her think she’s winning, let her run in with her confidence. She is easy, that one, to manipulate. I don’t need to destroy her; she will do it herself.”

Malfurion sighed, relief when he left, making sure to slam the door behind him. Why did he even keep him alive? All he wanted to do was join Tyrande in the next world. There was nothing left—the ancients were gone, the nightmare was taking over… and now it seemed Garrosh would hunt the dragons, too. Perhaps he’d been inspired by the incidents at Grim Batol when the orcs had taken the dragon queen. It sickened him, to think of Lady Ysera being used like that. Yet, Malfurion couldn’t decide whether the worse fate would have been falling to the nightmare.

What was worse? Garrosh’s Azeroth, or a nightmare twisted one?

Malfurion didn’t know, but, he hoped, he didn’t live long enough to experience either.


	5. Woman

They hadn't spoken of it.

Not a word. A silent agreement that it had been a one-time thing, that it was something both had needed in order to continue to function properly. Chantari liked people, she was extroverted; a social butterfly,but all the time alone had made her cold. Made her forget the warmth she had, caused her to long for the touch of another human. That it just happened to be the king of Stormwind was a coincidence.

And yet....

Things had changed. He touched her more, sat closer with her when they ate or rested. Sometimeshis hand would find itself on the small of her back, and sometimes, if her hair was particularly unruly, he'd brush it from her face. In another time, another world, would they have found each other like this, she wondered. Would they have naturally gravitated towards each other?

She wasn't sure.

In another life time, another world, a better one, she wouldn't be craving it. She wouldn't need to sleep with him to feel close to someone, to feel like she was still a living creature with feelings and compassion and empathy in her veins and heart. Yet he was handsome, and she was attracted to him, there was no lie in that, no doubt in her mind about it. How much of his personality had remained the same? She didn't think it had changed, yet there were pieces of him missing now, pieces he'd never regain. If, somehow, they made it out of this alive, things would never be normal. He would never be the great king he was before.

She paused. Would he want to return to it? Would she?

She could not fathom a life without Tyrande, and yet here she was. Going on without her, a different purpose. But what would be her purpose later? To heal the world which would be left scarred by Garrosh and the nightmare? To restore the dream to its former glory? It could be healed, it took a lot of work, only powerful druids and the green dragons had the power to do it, but it could be done.

But would that be without him?

Another pause.

She shouldn't question it. She should go with it, no matter whether he would be there. Yet it became harder and harder to imagine it without him, any form of life. It just didn't seem to exist. Her laughter hadn't flowed so freely since she was in the temple with Tyrande, but with him.... She sighed deeply.

There was no place in this world for them, he was old, and she felt old. The world was changed, perhaps they were just there to... finish whatever they could, leave whatever they could for the future generation. Kids. She'd never have kids. She'd never thought about it before, not urgently, she'd thought she had time to. Time, something no one had now.

It was dangerous to think too much, even as she showered in the waterfall nearby the camp. The water was cool on her sore muscles. A three-day trip back, they’d been diverted by some rampaging centaur fighting with orcs. She’d wanted to step in and help, see if perhaps the centaurs could join their side but—she could sense it on them. The touch of the nightmare. It was getting stronger, it worried her. How long before it pulled everyone in, even those not connected to the land and the dream? Her thoughts moved to Malfurion, to the green dragons, to Lady Ysera and she growled, hitting the water as though it would help.

“You’ll hurt yourself.”

She jumped, turning only her head to look at Varian. How long had he been there? He’d seen her naked a lot recently, it was funny, what sleeping with him had done. Removed all her shyness, their survival was more important than any ‘dignity’ anyway. What good was dignity when you were covered in mud and starving hungry? Yet right then, his hungry eyes on her—

She felt very small, very much like a cornered deer and he was a leering wolf, ready to clamp his teeth down on her neck.

They shouldn’t. Not again. Once was a slip up, an accident. This? This would be a mistake, a costly one. There was no room for emotions in war, not emotions like this. Hadn’t his love for his son caused this? In his rage for revenge—

Chantari inhaled and closed her eyes as she turned her face back up to the water.

Varian considered her, watching the water cascade down her back and across her backside. It troubled him how much he wanted this woman. He’d had women since Tiffin, he was a human being, of course he did. It was natural. But he never developed feelings for them, they were one time things, usually fuelled by alcohol. They were all dainty women, small, demure. Did whatever he said. Easy. Chantari? He breathed. She was exhilarating. A warrior like him, there was no doubt in his mind. He’d seen her fight the orcs, been in awe of how she charged in, graceful and accurate with her bow. She was most beautiful covered in sweat and orc blood, that was when it was most difficult for him, to stop himself.

He, too, knew they shouldn’t.

He wanted to, right now. Light, he wanted to go over there and take her into his arms and forget the world but, instead, Varian sat down on the bank of the river and looked at his own reflection. Old and rugged, yet she certainly seemed to find him appealing. He’d noticed her stares, the lingering glances.

“Don’t druids favour magic, or shape shifting?” he asked suddenly. He’d only seen her fight with a bow, she had a few. Apparently, she collected them, her favourite one was a short-bow she’d made herself. She wouldn’t tell him why it was so special, but he could tell there was something about it. It seemed so… alive, as if there was something more to it than just wood and leather.

“They tend to,” she said over the sound of the rushing water. “But with the nightmare so close, using those powers is difficult,” she chuckled. “I never liked shapeshifting much,” she paused, her ears straining for any distant sounds. They always did. Anya was lounging nearby, purring with her mate, a rather beaten older tiger who she hadn’t named. She didn’t see him much, he mostly hunted alone, but when he did come—it was the one thing, before Varian, which had kept her heart slightly soft.

“No? So you’re not just… going to turn into a cat on me, are you?” He chuckled at the idea.

“No… not a cat anyway,” she mused, finding something amusing that he wasn’t privy to. “Best leave being a cat for Anya. She does it so much better,” She grinned over at her.

Varian sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Can you do me a favour?”

Chantari glanced over her shoulder at him. “What is it?”

“Feel like chopping most of my hair off? I’d do it myself, but,” he scowled. “I’d make a mess.”

Chantari snorted, slipping out from the waterfall and grabbing up the furs she used to dry herself with. She wrapped them round her, going to kneel behind him. “Like anyone is here to see your messed-up hair. I could do just as badly.”

“I don’t think you could do anything badly,” he said quietly, offering her the dagger from his boot. One of the things left from home, a lion on the pommel. Simple enough, maybe the one thing left that identified him to himself. He didn’t feel like King Varian Wrynn anymore. Especially not with a small elven girl covered only by a beast’s hide, kneeling behind him and cutting his hair off. She was gentle, her hands were warm in the cold night.

She hummed in response. “We need to talk, about where we’re going,” She murmured. “Staying here hunting orcs seems like a good plan, but….”

He breathed out, closing his eyes. She was right, they should do more. They could help. She could fight, heal wounded; he could fight… maybe he could lead. Would they follow him? Were they disappointed in him? Did he even want that responsibility anymore?

“Part of me still wants to run away,” he admitted. A pause, and then he grabbed her wrist gently, turning to look at her. Their faces were inches apart. “Wants us to run away. To go and just pretend this isn’t happening.”

“Where would we go?” she asked weakly.

“There are uncharted lands,” he suggested.

Chantari chuckled. “You’re incorrigible, King Wrynn.”

He shuddered, gripping her wrist tighter. He wanted her. It was no longer a case of need, of needing to feel human warmth, of needing that closeness only sex provided. No, he wanted her. He wanted to enjoy it, not rush it, make her entirely his—

Chantari ducked down into a low crouch and he was alert instantly. Anya’s head perked up and she stood up, guarding her mate. Even his ears weren’t that sensitive, but he watched the look come over her face. “How close?” he asked.

“Close enough,” she murmured, grabbing her short-bow from where she’d stored it. “Two,” she whispered, following the way through the trees. She swore, the beast fur was limiting her movement—“Useless piece of junk-“ She muttered, letting it fall to the floor.

He wanted to laugh that she would fight orcs naked, yet he felt worried. She had no protection if she and he were not quick enough. There was no protection when branches whipped at her, when brambles caught on her skin. Anya ran beside her, much quicker than he was, their footfalls much softer.

Eventually she stopped, hiding behind a tree to listen. He paused further off, able to crouch behind a rock and move around the orcs. They were stood on an overlook, a camp fire between them, and the very river that she’d just been bathing in passing below them. Varian crept down, quietly, quietly, careful of his heavy plated boots, to listen to their conversation from below them.

He’d learned a lot more orcish since hunting with her, she often liked to observe them, as if they were animals in a zoo or something. There was always a look of disgust upon her face. He remembered one incident when they’d been picking up fresh ‘slaves’, Orcs who’d gone into hiding with some blood elves and night elves. She’d gone into a blind rage, killing every last one of Garrosh’s followers until he’d had to stop her—there had been children, she’d screamed, children! It made her sick, Garrosh made her sick. She wanted nothing more than to stick an arrow through his fat neck and—

“The alliance bitch is going to fall soon,” one of the orcs snickered. “We need to hurry and reach Ratchet. I don’t want to miss this.”

The other sighed deeply. “Doesn’t it seem underhanded?”

“You questionin’ the warchief?”

“No,” the second said, though sounding very defensive about it. “But a spy, a human, working with us-“ Chantari watched the Orc squint.

“Not his fault he’s human,” the first snorted. “But at least he knows the winning side. Worked out, too, dinnit?He put that plan into her head, lure her and her army to Stranglethorn,” he wheezed out a laugh.

Jaina, they were talking about Jaina. Chantari edged closer. The first one was a monster, but the second—he would speak, he was weak. She’d tortured orcs before, made them tell her their plans, where their supplies were—where they were getting prisoners from next. They all spoke easy and this would be no exception.

She let out a low whistle, knocking an arrow and loosing it through the neck of the first Orc. Anya had sprung onto his body before it had fallen, and before the second orc could draw his axe, her bow was pointed at him, and Varian had a sword at his back.

“You really shouldn’t come into my territory,” She breathed, almost laughing at how theatrical Anya was being by ripping into the corpse. The orc looked disgusted, yet unable to tear his eyes away from the scene. “That’s your fate if you don’t talk.”

“If I tell you anything that’s my fate anyway,” he spat. “Elven bitch.”

Chantari laughed, letting an arrow go into his thigh. He went for his axe again, but Varian had already kicked it away. “The lady wants you to speak,” he murmured.

The orc stared at him, his eyes eventually going wide—“You! How is it possible…?”

“I’m asking the questions,” Chantari said loudly, moving closer to him. “Who is the spy on Jaina’s council? What’s happening in Stranglethorn?”

The Orc kept his eyes on Varian.

“Look,” She frowned, grabbing the orcs face and turning it to face her. “You know what Garrosh is, right? A monster. We want to stop him, if you can help us save Jaina-“

“I won’t.”

The elf paused, glancing at Anya. She let out another low whistle, and the great tigress turned her attention to the live orc, slowly advancing on him, her tongue licking at her blood covered muzzle.

“You—she wouldn’t—that’s inhumane!”

“Like taking slaves who are children?!” she muttered. “Tell us and she won’t hurt you.”

He remained silent, so she let another arrow into his thigh. Anya didn’t hesitate, going for the other leg and sinking her teeth in. He howled in pain, and Varian could only watch, more in awe of her than the actual scene. Here she was, nakedly torturing an orc for information. He’d never wanted her more, never needed her more.

“Alright!” the orc yelled. Anya backed off instantly, going back to the other one, the unmoving and dead one. Sounds of her teeth ripping at the flesh echoed through the air and he squirmed, feeling sick and—he gulped down. “I don’t know who the member is, some human, never seen him.” She let him carry on, content that was truly the case. “He fed her fake information, that Garrosh himself is in Stranglethorn and he was injured in a skirmish with Sylvanas. They have one ship left and he convinced her to take it, and the small remainders of her warriors to take the fight to him now.”

“What’s really waiting for them?” Varian asked, dread filling his stomach.

“An army, and he won’t just kill her-“ he winced, he was losing so much blood. Perhaps he should have stayed silent, he was dying anyway, but… Varian. To see him, even as an orc it inspired something akin to hope within him. He was done with Garrosh, but he’d had to protect his family; his wife and his daughter. This wasn’t the world he wanted for them, maybe these two could do something about it, protect them more than he ever had. “He will make it public. Then he intends on doubling back on Sylvanas’ army who are to the North around Stormwind following some of the army who are leading her astray. She thinks it will be the bulk. She’s wrong.”

“And after?” Chantari murmured. “What does he want after?”

The orc muttered. “Dragons,” he said.

Her bow lowered quickly, dread covering her face. “Dragons?” she shot to him, grabbing the front of his shirt and shaking him. “What do you mean by that?”

“He wants… dragons, he said-“ the orc wheezed.

“No!” she yelled, shaking him. “Tell me!”

But he was still. She shook him more, trying anything to awaken him to get answers—she needed more! She needed to know!

“Chantari,” Varian murmured. “Leave him-“

“I need to know-“ she ran her fingers through her hair. “If we beat Garrosh, Lady Ysera is the only one left who can fight the nightmare—but he’s weakened after Deathwing-“ she moaned, closing her eyes, a pain across her face that Varian couldn’t place. “We have to stop him killing Jaina.”

“I agree,” Varian said, shoulders back. “We need to go to the alliance.”

“No,” Chantari shook her head. “If we turn up Garrosh will know. Her army is fragile and weak, Garrosh will descend upon them easily. What Jaina needs is reinforcements, someone who doesn’t have a spy in their ranks.”

Varian’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

Chantari fingered her bow. Garrosh was making his final moves, and it seemed they had no time to ponder what to do next; no time to enjoy the peace of the forest. Her thoughts were frantic—how did they get across the ocean for a start? Should she go and warn the aspects? Leave Varian to help Jaina?

No.

No that was a bad idea. There was only one person they could turn to for help, the only one with an army strong enough to even stand a chance. Chantari hated the idea of turning to _that woman_ for help, but where else could they go? And… like it or not, Chantari had something she could use to bargain with her.

She looked up at Varian. She understood the look he was giving her, that he would have preferred not to hear what the Orcs had to say. She felt it, too. How would he take what she would suggest? Her lips turned firm, her expression blank. “How do you fancy a trip to Stormwind?”


	6. Fairytale

The thing about there being so few people left within the Alliance, was that Jaina was more aware when they were suddenly vanishing. Though she spoke of it only to Kalec, everyone was aware of it, and everyone was starting to suspect one another. She had long since learned her lesson to blindly trust people, her softness, her compassion had been destroyed with her home, she’d had to rid herself of it to survive the waves that had collapsed her; the compassion, the openness, they had been anchors dragging her to the bottom. 

Yet, there was not a person within her council she didn’t… distrust, she supposed. She kept them all at an arms length but was starting to wonder if it just wasn’t far enough away. She rubbed her forehead, sipping her tea. It was late, and the soft rocking of the ship did nothing to help her pregnancy sickness. Kalec had gone to get some fresh air when he couldn’t sleep, and she’d instead turned to reading one of her favourite books by candle light. Instead, she’d been distracted by her thoughts.

Mathias was missing for two months now, very unlike him. Thrall and Baine, they were gone—where? Baine had met with Jaina, told her of his plan to find Thrall but she’d lost contact with the tauren. If Garrosh had them she was positive he would have been loud about it, same with Mathias. She wondered if all three of them were not together, and then wondered why they were not coming back. The spymaster had been looking for Varian but was also keeping an eye out for signs of the other two. Was Varian mixed up in all of this? Jaina paused. What if they’d found some safe place? Did such a thing exist?

At least, that had been what she had assumed.

But now other people were going missing. The ship’s captain had vanished the day they were due to leave. Odd. He’d been excited to finally see some Naval action, happy that she had asked him instead of trying out Kul’Tiras. It was still an option, Jaina thought, but her council had spoken out about it. Why? There was a game going on, and she wasn’t sure who she should be moving against. She wanted to trust Velen, but he was so secretive and kept to himself. Part of her wondered if he wasn’t wanting to run away again, but then decided it was unworthy of her to think such an awful thing. But the others, Moira she most certainly didn’t trust, but she was the only dwarf willing to join her. The others had locked themselves within Ironforge, and they had long since ceased all communication with her. Moira became more and more withdrawn since and it caused Jaina to wonder if, perhaps, the dwarven priestess did not lack confidence in her ability to lead. Was she leading a coup? Take away all the people who supported her the loudest, so that only the negative ones could be heard?

Jaina put down her book.

But where were the people being taken?

No one wanted to bring the subject up, they were all mistrusting of each other, and the longer this went on, the weaker the alliance became. 

“Here,” Kalec’s voice came as he entered the room. He brought her some tea, and she looked at her mug, chuckling that it was empty. “I guessed you would have finished already.”

“You know me too well,” she murmured, closing her eyes as he kissed the top of her head. He lingered behind her chair, hands gently rubbing her shoulders. She was glad he was there, she wasn’t sure whether she would have gotten through all of this without him. “I always used to hope each war I saw would be the last.”

“I think we all do,” he said quietly.

“I truly used to believe it was possible, but I wonder whether that is the case anymore,” she sighed, absently putting the book on the desk and tracing the spine with her fingers. “War in the past has brought people closer together, in some way, and yet this… it is driving us all further apart.”

He was silent for a time. He was much older, wiser, he’d seen things she could not imagine, yet he felt as if he agreed. There was something about this war that was just… more. The way it affected everyone, as if some dark spell had been cast over them. He had ideas about it, he knew enough of what Ysera always spoke of, the nightmare, and he knew it was tied to the old gods. Perhaps it was that power they were all feeling; yet what could they do? As Jaina had said, they were all so apart from each other. Defeating an old god was a huge task, where would they even begin? For a start he’d need to talk with the other aspects, figure it out, but it had been so long since he’d had any contact with them. 

“I feel like we are sheep,” She said after a long pause. “Being herded towards something.”

Kalec frowned, squeezing her shoulders, before moving to kneel in front of her. “I won’t let anyone harm you,” he promised, tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. “Either of you,” he added, resting his other hand on her swollen stomach.

“ _I_ won’t let anyone harm _you_ ,” she said quietly, resting her hand on top of his. “Is it terrible of me to consider making a portal and going… anywhere else?”

He sighed deeply. “I don’t know anymore,” he admitted. “What’s right or what’s wrong… it’s all mixed up these days.”

“I’m scared,” She admitted, and his eyes snapped up hers. Seeing the tears lining them, hearing her voice break as she spoke out the one thing she always kept to her heart—he wanted to scoop her up, fly her off as far as possible. He was scared, too, and he knew he didn’t have to say it out loud for her to understand it. “Kalec, I want you to promise me, if this goes badly, I want you to go. To survive, find Mathias, Thrall, Baine, and Varian,” she squeezed his hand.

“I won’t leave you.”

“I’m no dragon,” she spoke out loud. “I am slow, and I need more food and rest thanyou do. Especially in this state. If anyone can find them, it will be you. If this goes badly… they’re the only ones who can stop him, Kalec. Varian is the only one who can lead the alliance.”

“And what if there’s no alliance to lead?” he muttered.

She didn’t answer. If this went badly, there would be no alliance. And, then, she had an idea. “Can you get me some parchment?” she asked quickly.

Kalec paused but leaned over to the shelves and grabbed her some. She took it quickly, writing down the words that came to her . He watched the concentration on her face, the pain that flitted across it every now and then. How could she think she was not right to lead these people? Here she was, scared out of her mind, and still putting the future of her people before her. 

“I need you to take this to Kul’Tiras if everything goes badly. Find Varian, and take this-“ She said, folding it, though she paused before sealing it. Her hand hovered over the alliance seal, before she moved to the house Proudmoore one and stamped the letter shut. “Take him there. Hopefully they will agree and he will know what to do-“ She breathed in. 

“Why don’t we just go to them now?”

She shook her head, fingers knotting into his hair to anchor herself to this world. Sometimes, if she got lost in how scared she felt, she felt as if she might drift away, as if he was the only anchor she had anymore. “Because I don’t know who I can trust anymore, Kalec. If we go there…” She sighed, resting her forehead against his. Kalec’s hand came to rest on her cheek and she smiled, putting her own on top.

“You can trust me,” he whispered.

“I know,” She replied, taking in his scent. He always smelled like concentrated magic, it often made her heady, especially in her current state, but she could never get enough of it. “I’m fairly certain when we get there we’re not going to find Garrosh weakened at all.”

He didn’t want to say he agreed because that would mean they were heading towards a trap, and that there was a very high chance she would not escape it. It scared him, more than anything in his life had scared him. He’d stood inches from Deathwing and had never felt this fear, seen the insanity of Malygos, heard the awful stories of the nightmare from Ysera, but they were all nothing compared to this fear.

The fear he would lose her. And his unborn child.

This world was wrong, it was broken. He was certain this was not how the future should have been, and yet the absence of any bronze dragons proved it was set in stone. It seemed such a cruel fate. A world where evil won? He supposed it made sense, evil rarely had a conscious, it could kill without feeling, destroy and rip apart without a second thought. Evil had no inhibitions, if it wanted something, it took it regardless. Evil should always win, and yet he’d always seen heroes beat evil at every corner. Had they just gotten lucky, he wondered, had they just been living a fantasy story up until this point? Was this the reality?

That the good winning was just a childish story, that evil always won—that everything was a fluke…. He hoped not. He hoped that there would be a miracle somehow, that even as the ship sailed into the jaws of a giant shark, they would not end up in its belly.

It seemed wishful thinking, it seemed almost naïve to hope for that to be the case, yet for her sake, for their child’s sake, he hoped it dearly. Kalec clutched her tightly to him, burying his face into the top of her hair. 

She gave him hope.

She made him believe that the fairy tales where the heroes won were the truth.

He’d lived a long life, met many people, fallen in love with others before, but not like this. Something had always been missing until… until she was there. True love, he supposed, and yet he’d been in the right place, at the right time. If he wasn’t Kalec he would never have met her, that was fate, he knew it was. His life seemed to him to be a series of events just passing time until she’d entered it; and then everything had started properly, the world had a colour to it that he hadn’t seen before. Perhaps it was cliché, yet it was a fairy tale he had no other explanation for. It was fate, it was true love. 

Jaina Proudmoore was the one.

And if fate could make him who he was and put him in the right place to meet her, if it could thrust them together on a wonderful if not dangerous adventure, then fate could work for the world to survive. For them to survive. He had not waited for her for so long for it to end like this, he believed that. He truly did. 

Kalec squeezed her hand, kissing her head, before moving down to kiss her stomach. She smiled warmly at him.

They were going to make it out of this; all three of them were.


	7. Daughter of Dreams

Northrend had changed much since Varian had last been there. 

It seemed to him, the one place in Azeroth where Garrosh was not terrorising people, where the nightmare was not leaking into this world like a disease. Yet, these people were scared. The king sat in the tavern, grumpy, and feeling like a chastised child. Chantari had ordered him to stay there and not move until she sent for him; she was procuring travel the rest of the way, and trying to contact her family. She didn’t want anyone to recognise him. 

Varian thought that was a good idea, though. 

He’d been watching these people come and go. They seemed to have lost all hope, like they were living on borrowed time and they knew it; it broke his heart. This was his fault, their fear, their pain... it was all him. If he suddenly exposed himself to them would they react with joy at the return of their beloved king, or act with disdain and hate because he was the one who let them down, the one who had brought them to this place? 

He gulped down trying to losen his throat up, but instead turned back to nursing his ale. 

Chantari had been gone for an hour now and he was starting to get both impatient and worried. He had behaved poorly with her on the trip towards the Borean Tundra, he knew that. He’d sulked at her plan, treated her as though she’d instead suggested handing him to Garrosh to fix this all. She was right, he knew it, Sylvanas was the best answer. Perhaps the only answer. He didn’t like it, though, and he was worried about what she could possibly offer Sylvanas in return for her help. 

She had assured him over and over on the journey whenever his silence bothered her enough, that Sylvanas was a different person to the one he once knew. She was no huge fan of hers, but the living had flocked to her for safety and she’d taken them in. Even her sister had returned to her, Sylvanas was happy to let Vereesa act as somewhat of a liaison between the living and herself; this had surprised Varian. Sylvanas did not seem the type to share power, to share any glory. 

“Excuse me, your majesty?” 

Varian jumped, looking up at the hooded figure who’d approached him. He saw green eyes glowing—a blood elf?-- from within the hood. Had he been recognised? This person, this elf, he kept his voice quiet. “Sorry to have startled you,” he said again, his voice smooth to Varian's ears. “But Lady Chantari sent me to retrieve you.” 

“Did she?” he asked, sitting straight. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?” 

The elf chuckled, his lips turning up into a smirk. He noted the sharp teeth and shuddered. “She told me to tell you to,” he cleared his throat. “Get your bloody ass off that chair and accompany Twig towards the ship.” 

Varian snorted. “That sounds like her. I assume you are Twig?” 

“That is correct,” he said simply. 

“And what is this ship?” 

“A question which we can answer later,” Twig said quietly. “For now, we should leave. There is a foul storm coming and we need to prepare to leave as soon as the Lady returns.” 

“You speak of her like she’s a princess,” Varian muttered, standing up and making sure his own cloak covered him properly. It was bitterly cold outside, he could understand the sudden worry about a storm. “Where is she?” 

“Sending a message to her mother,” Twig replied. 

“And who is her mother?” 

Twig paused, but only for a second, before he carried on walking beside the king. He was tall, Varian noted. Taller than any Blood Elf he’d met before. “If Lady Chantari has not confided that information within you yet, it is not my place to divulge it,” Twig said simply. “But thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“Bringing her home,” Twig said, sounding pained. “When Tyrande Whisperwind was murdered at the hands of Garrosh Hellscream, I thought I had seen the last of her. We all had. It caused her a great deal of pain. Chantari is... has never been accustomed to dealing with grief.” 

“She seems to have done okay so far,” Varian said. She’d forged herself into a weapon, put her hatred into her arrows—it conflicted with his image of her. Of how he’d seen her at Darnassus all those years ago, happy, bubbly. Even now as he began to see more and more of who she truly was. The king closed his eyes, regretting his words. No, she had not done okay with the grief at all, but if she hadn’t become what she had, she would be dead. 

“You think so?” Twig asked, his lip curling up. “I see nothing of the happy young girl I watched grow up. For one who had so much hope, so much optimism, and the ideal of peace within their heart at all times, she has sure grown bloodthirsty, wouldn’t you say?” 

Varian grunted. “The world has changed. We need to change with it.” 

The elf gave him a strange look, as if he were just a child and couldn’t possibly understand what he’d just said. As if he couldn’t possibly understand the plight of war, or the suffering it always brought. What was it with these elves and treating him like a child? 

“Regardless,” Twig said. “She came back. If she doesn’t come back to us after this war, I will personally hunt you down, Varian Wrynn.” 

The king was shocked. Who was this man? And who was he to Chantari that he would threaten him so brazenly? Varian understood; Chantari was worth protecting, but this... just who was she? And who was this elf to her? Varian paused as they came upon the ship. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected; they’d said ship, and it was indeed, a ship. Smaller than any he’d travelled on before, covered in elves with a few human. They were all high elves he noted, apart from a few night elves. “What is this?” Varian muttered. “Some secret elf society?” 

Twig chuckled, giving him the strangest look—one which Chantari often gave him. As if she were privy to a joke he had no clue about. “And this ship just happened to be going where we need to go?” 

“No,” Twig said, leading the king aboard. He paused and stared up at the helm, hiss eyes trained on two figures. Varian followed his gaze, his eyes softening considerably when he found Chantari talking to whom he assumed to be the ship captain. She looked rushed, but he’d missed her. He’d been so foolish, sulking with her over the choice to engage with Sylvanas. If this woman believed Sylvanas could help, Varian was going to believe her. Apparently, all these elves believed in her. “But... Lady Chantari is asking for our help.” 

“And it’s that simple?“ Varian laughed. 

His laughter brought the attention of Chantari. She stared down at them, a strange look on her face, but the king watched her lips turn up into a small smile. She excused herself, walking down to the main deck with a grace Varian wasn’t accustomed to seeing. It was true that she was graceful when she rushed through the forests, but-- “A-are you wearing a dress?” he asked, shocked. 

“Shut up,” She muttered, hitting his arm, yet he saw the amusement in her eyes. “They’re robes.” 

“It looks like a dress to me. I’ve never seen such finely made robes.” 

“Would you prefer I walk about naked?” 

Twig cleared his throat, dumping down a sack he’d had with him. “I got the supplies you asked for, Lady Chantari, so there’s no need to remove your clothing.” 

She gave him a sly grin, lifting up the sack and slinging it over her shoulder. "The captain tells me we’re ready to set sail. Unless you need to do anything?” He thought about returning to the town, about showing them who he was, he thought of the looks of no hope, of the looks of death stalking the people in the streets and he shook his head. The elf gave him a strange look, then turned to Twig. “I’ll show King Wrynn around,” she said, in a voice which shocked him. It was higher pitched than he remembered, so formal and so proper. 

The male elf moved closer to her, grabbing her arm and pulling her close enough that his lips could reach her ear. He shouldn’t listen, Varian knew it, but he focused his hearing using everything he’d learned while in the wild. “You need to tell him,” Twig hissed. 

“I will,” she said back. “I’m just worried how he’s going to take it.” 

“If he reacts poorly he’s not the man you thought.” 

Chantari gave a weak chuckle. “I don’t think he will react poorly about that...” she sighed, pulling back. She stared at Twig for a moment, then turned around and freed her arm. “Tell the captain we’re ready to go. Make sure no one disturbs us.” 

“Of course, my lady,” Twig murmured, hurrying up the to the top deck. 

“What was that?” Varian asked. 

“Twig disapproves of getting involved in the conflict,” she said simply, motioning to a cabin on the deck. Rather than walk ahead, Varian linked his arm with hers. She didn’t act surprised, instead let out a soft hum of contentment as she melted close to him. “Your warmth is welcome, I forgot how cold Northrend is.” 

“How is this your home?” he asked. 

She shook her head, closing the door behind them and crossing over to light a few oil lamps. He noted her old clothes and cloak on a bed nearby. Was this her cabin? Just who was she? “I think I need to explain a few things to you,” She said, sitting down at a desk which reminded him much of his own back in Stormwind. He sat opposite her, quiet, waiting. “You have to understand if I had another choice I would never tell you this.” 

“Why?” 

“Because this isn’t my life anymore,” she said quickly, hushed. “You should understand... better than anyone. This... none of this matters to who I am anymore,” she pushed some of her hair back. He noted that it was tame, not bushy and covered in leaves. He was unaccustomed to seeing her so put together, so... normal looking. “But unless I keep you in this cabin you’re going to notice something strange with these elves.” 

Varian snorted. “All elves are weird, I stopped paying attention.” 

A playful smile danced across her lips for a moment. “You will find out when we meet with Sylvanas anyway-” she inhaled. He could see, she really didn’t want to tell him, did she? “Varian, I-” 

“You don’t need to say,” he cut her off. 

“I do.” 

He sighed, shaking his head and staring up at the ceiling. “Let me guess you’re Lor’themar’s long lost daughter? Or a lost Sunstrider daughter? You’re going to appeal to Sylvanas with your blood and claim to your shared heritage.” 

Chantari let out a high pitched laugh he wasn’t used to hearing. He snapped his head to her, puzzled. That wasn’t it? They were certainly treating her like she was one of those things! “You think I could appeal to Sylvanas by virtue of our shared blood? No, the only thing Sylvanas cares about is the life of her people. The forsaken. That’s what I’m appealing to. I might have a way to... help their plight.” 

There was nothing he could think to say to that; was this where it turned out she was some crazy necromancer? Or she had Bolvar to raise undead for Sylvanas? Was that it? No, she smelled too much of life. He’d seen her help life too much. She was a druid, not a necromancer. 

The woman sighed softly and closed her eyes for a moment. There was something different, he noted. Her eyes—when she opened them, they were not at all what he was accustomed to. Rather than their beautiful blue, they were a deep green. Slowly, as Varian took in the woman in front of him, it dawned on him.

"Yes," she murmured, watching his eyes take her in. "Now do you understand how I can appeal to her?"

Varian jumped up and moved forward, wanting to lock her up suddenly. If there was one place she should not go-- "Are you insane? As soon as she finds out she's going to lock you up and experiment on you."

Chantari let out a bitter laugh, brushing her fingers through her hair. "I would like to see her try, Varian."

He felt anxious about this, especially with this revelation that she was-- and they had-- and oh! It made him heady to think he had been with a-- and-- Varian breathed, taking a seat when she motioned to one in the corner of the room. He'd lain with a dragon in mortal form, it was enough-- he inhaled. Yet, despite all this, he felt some hope. 

"Twig?"

"Every elf on this ship is a member of the Green Dragonflight," she murmured.

"So... why are we taking a ship?"

Chantari let out a soft laugh and flitted about the room. He noted that she seemed more at ease, that she wasn't hiding who she was so much. There was speed and grace that had seemed so abnormal and now he understood why. It wasn't an Elf thing, it was a dragon thing. Her laugh cut off and she sighed, pulling a book from the shelf. "I am the only surviving child of Lady Ysera," she said quietly. "I was her youngest, the last hatchling of her last clutch," she paused. "Currently my mother is trapped within the dream."

"The nightmare, you mean," he pointed out.

"Yes," she said, glancing at him. "I can not sleep at night because I hear her cries of pain. She calls for me, for all of her flight to help her but we can't reach her. The forces that corrupt the dream are strong-" she gulped. "Malfurion is the only one who can help, if he yet lives..." she sighed. "Since Deathwing the aspects power has been greatly diminished, and now with our leader trapped and the dream corrupted... most of us are all but powerless. My flight has almost died out-" she looked at him, and he noted the horror, the pain all contorted there and he wanted desperately to rush to her, to rid her face of that expression for it was not an expression which belonged upon her soft face. "Those on the ship are the last. I'm the only one with any real power left."

It was a lot to take in, and he had a lot of questions. Varian watched her intently and she watched him. She understood the shock, and that his mind was busy so she let him get on with it. His reaction so far-- she let out a sigh. It was better than she'd expected. "Why did you live within Darnassus?" he asked.

"I was always very curious about the world," she mused. "But I loved nature too much. I wanted to always be surrounded by it. For a time I dwelled within Quel'Thalas," she sighed softly, looking as though she were years ago and far, far away. "The golden forests were a dream, but the nightmare began to emerge. My brothers and sisters started falling to corruption. As I dreamed I heard whispers, they did not feel like the nightmare, but I apprehensively followed them. They led me to Malfurion," she smiled fondly. "I decided to stay with him and Tyrande after the nightmare went quiet again. Teldrassil was peaceful, it was safe. Tyrande became the first friend I'd had in a long time. I had been alone for a while. My heart had been broken, and a dragon's heart does not heal as easily as a humans."

"And why didn't you tell me before?"

At this question, Chantari let out a harsh sigh. "Because this is not my life anymore. This is no ones life. These elves, dragons-- whatever you want to call them-- look at me like I'm the only hope to bring Malfurion and Lady Ysera back. I don't know how to tell them that I don't have that power. I ran from my responsibilities as a leader, just like you did."  
He gulped down, nodding in understanding. Perhaps it was why they'd gotten on so well, she understood his feelings, his fear and his shame.

"I all but gave up when Tyrande was killed," she carried on. "I didn't care. I spent months flying over Ashenvale howling in pain. I tried to take whatever other elves lingered to safety, but eventually I ended up at Feralas. I went searching for Shandris-" she inhaled. "Feathermoon Stronghold was a blood bath. The orcs desecrated my sisters bodies, they were all mutilated and desecrated-" she let out a yell of rage and threw the book across the room. She was heaving, fists clenched, and she was glaring at the door. "I was... angry. All I wanted to do was curl up and cry but what could I do? Let everything go unanswered? Let my sisters deaths be for nothing? So I avenged them. I found the Orc's who had led the attack and I slaughtered every last one of them. They had cornered Anya when I found them, I saved her, healed her... she kept me company as I lingered within Feralas, hunting any Orcs who decided to trespass within the overgrown wilds I claimed as my own."

That must have been what Twig had meant by her not handling grief well. In one move, Varian stood up and was at her side. He didn't entirely care what she was, he was glad for the truth, but it didn't change her. Now he saw more of her, understood her better, but she was still Chantari. It was just now he realised she was just as lonely and scared and bitter at the world as he was. "We will stop Garrosh," he promised. "We will make Sylvanas work with us, we will save the Alliance, and then we will turn our forces on Orgrimmar. We will free Malfurion if he lives, and we will kill him."

Chantari stared at him, letting out a deep sigh that sounded, he thought, more like a feral snarl. Then, she was kissing him. It had been the first physical contact they'd had like this since they'd left Feralas, he'd forgotten the electric shocks her touches would send through him, and Varian gasped as she grabbed onto his forearms, pushing him back against the wall. She wasn't holding back her strength now, either, it seemed. 

He wondered if they should stop, whether Twig would burst in and kill him for touching their 'dragon princess' or whatever it was she was, but he also found he did not care. In his arms was a woman who right now, just needed to be loved and cared for, and Varian decided that that was something he could absolutely do

* * *

* * *

  
The ruins of Stormwind seemed to show nothing of how grand the city had once been. 

Sylvanas stood upon the battlements that remained near the main gate and surveyed the damage. The level of death and destruction Garrosh had wrought upon this city disgusted even her, and she turned her lip up as the cold night air blew. It served her as a reminder of what would happen to her city, her people, should she fail. If Garrosh decided to turn his attention upon her, could they survive it?

This was war for survival, and she intended to be the last one standing. 

It was strange, she had to admit, to have living amongst her people, but it had given her hope for the future. Something she'd thought that she'd given up on. Hope fails, wasn't that what she had always said? And yet here she was.

The banshee queen let out a bitter laugh.

"Something funny, sister?"

Sylvanas cocked her head slightly to acknowledge Vereesa's approach. "I was thinking about how ironic this whole thing is."

The blonde elf let out a sigh, lowering herself to sit upon the battlements. The air was thick with death, for once not belonging to Sylvanas' and her people. "Silver Covenant scouts report that there's an Orcish mass to the North of us," she said quietly. "The seem to be interested in taking back Arathi."

"Let them have it," Sylvanas grunted.  "If they are occupied with that, they will be too late to turn around after we corner Garrosh in Stranglethorn. What of the alliance forces?"  
"Lady Jaina Proudmoore set sail a few days ago with a single ship," Vereesa replied, pain lingering on her voice. She still cared for the mage deeply, she did not want her to die in this. "Whatever information they got to make a move against him is sorely wrong. There is a large army that will await them- are you sure... that we will not intervene?"

"Let them have the alliance," the banshee replied, turning her back on the city to look over, instead, at her encampment. Her army was great, and her confidence greater. "We will take advantage of their confidence. They won't know we're coming for them." A pause as Sylvanas walked behind her. "You disagree, sister?" When Vereesa did not reply, Sylvanas let out a deep sigh. "Their inaction is what led to your human's death, that led to Garrosh getting to this state. All of our inaction led to it. If they sail to their death that is their foolishness."

The banshee queen's heels clicked as she walked off and Vereesa let out her own sigh, frowning at the city of death below her. "Do you truly intend to win this war, sister? Do you think we can?"

Sylvanas paused and glanced back at her, but without a reply carried on.

Vereesa closed her eyes. "I see," she said to herself. Her sister had confidence in her army, in her plans, but she didn't truly believe they could win-- that anyone could. The most they could hope for was to go down fighting, to not become part of the war machine that was Garrosh's horde.

Was that truly what awaited everyone? Death? She thought of her twins and let out a deep sigh. She didn't believe that. If they all worked together, perhaps, maybe... there would be a way. Maybe hearts were still broken, maybe hope had fled some people, and maybe the light seemed to have vanished from the world, but it seemed cruel for this to be their fate. 

She thought back to the day Varian had fought with Garrosh. She'd watched his fury fail him, watched him get knocked down, watched him fall, and then watched Garrosh emerge victorious. She'd seen the city burn in answer, heard the screams, babies crying, mothers crying, children begging for parents. Vereesa's blue eyes closed and her hands gripped onto the battlements below her a if trying to anchor herself into the reality lest she become to absorbed in her pain.

There had been endless cold nights since the death of her husband, but Vereesa had never wished his presence as much as she did then. If she closed her eyes and thought really hard, she could almost imagine Rhonin behind her, telling some stupid joke to ease her up, or else worrying himself and her trying to calm him. He'd probably be involved in some stupid plan that would probably get them all almost killed, but--

But at least she would have him again, at least their sons would have their father.

Vereesa stared up at the moonless sky and silently prayed for a way out of this.


	8. Life and Death

Stormwind was a mess.   


Varian swallowed down the guilt as he stared at the rubble from the ship. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting to find here; life? Everything carrying on as it used to? The state let a bitter taste in his mouth, but he couldn't turn his gaze away.   


“She's here?” he muttered.   


Twig grunted. “We can smell the undeath a mile away. Where is-”   


“I'm here,” Chantari's voice came as she emerged from her room. Varian glanced at her briefly, then turned back to his city. She'd spent most of the journey inside. To begin with she'd tried socialising with the others, but she'd found that she'd become far too different from them. They treated her like a princess and she found it smothering. She was thankful to Varian, who aside from the odd teasing, treated her no differently. “Did you send a messenger?”   


“I sent an owl,” Twig murmured. “But there's no sign of anyone greeting us. Perhaps... it is best to forgo-”   


“This is the best hope we have,” she cut him off. There was something to her tone which made Varian wonder just what was riding on this. Was it really the lives of Jaina and the remainders of the alliance? The defeat of Garrosh? And stopping the nightmare? Or was there more to it that only she knew? The wind picked up her blonde hair and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She found it easier now the king knew what she was, she adopted a more natural form her eyes a draconic green, and her horns sitting amongst her hair as though they'd always been there. He noted her fangs seemed sharper like this, too. “I got word from Wyrmrest yesterday.”   


Twig looked at her sharply. “And you didn't think to inform us?”   


“Chromie didn't know when to get the message to us,” Chantari said, a weak chuckle in her voice at her phrasing. “She saw something disturbing in the timeways.”   


“She isn't allowed to warn us,” he sighed. “You should ignore-”   


“She saw Garrosh and a vast horde army marching upon Wyrmrest,” Chantari said firmly. “She saw attacks on the dragonshrines.”   


Twig opened and closed his mouth a few times, bawling his fists up. “You know we can not interfere in time.”   


“Nozdormu told her to,” she whispered, glancing at him. “She said she didn't understand it fully, he was gone, and then there, and then he was gone again. But he told her to get help, to stop the attack. She's trying to rally the flights.”   


“What does Garrosh hope to do with a former aspect,” Twig muttered, arms now folded across his chest. “Their powers, our powers....”   


“Dragons are still dragons,” Varian pointed out. “You can still destroy anything you desire so easily.” He should know, Deathwing had destroyed the city once.   


“Regardless,” Chantari said, shifting when she noticed a figure on the wall watching them. “We need to see to this first. No-” she raised her hand, stopping Varian from lifting his hood. “They already know who you are.”   


“My lady,” Twig protested. “I must request you allow a guard with you-”   


“Enough,” she snapped. “Varian will suffice. You need to head back to Northrend and help Chromie-”   


“But-”   


“Go!” she yelled, turning to him, a woman on fire. “I survived this far, didn't    
I? If Sylvanas kills me, well... I'd rather it her than that monster, and I'd rather it now before hope has a chance to build in me.”   


Varian heard the break in her voice. She was scared, he thought, that she would start to believe in what they were doing and then.... he moved closer to her and took her hand. “I'll look after her,” he said firmly.   


“Will you?” Twig muttered, looking at the city. “Did you look after your people?”   


“Twig!” Chantari yelled.   


“No,” Varian said. “He is right. I failed them. I can't change those things, but I can try and put right the world as it is now. I'll protect her, Twig. I promise.”   


Though he wasn't sure she needed protecting. She'd changed from her robes into leathers, though he noted she still left her feet bare. Her bow was in her hand, a large quiver of arrows at her side. He wondered if she missed Anya. He was  nervous, so was she. He could see it in the concentration of her face as they climbed the rubble of the city to meet with the figure. She didn't once look back at the ship.   


He was shocked to find himself face to face with Vereesa when they met at the top. Her bow was drawn ready, but she watched them. Chantari's hood was now pulled firmly over her head, and her cloak billowed in the wind behind her. “Varian Wrynn,” Vereesa  gasped out. “How is it possible? We thought the message to be a trick by Garrosh, who is-” she looked at his companion.   


“I am...” She paused, her lips turning up into a slight smirk. “Here to help King Wrynn's negotiations, Lady Windrunner.”   


Varian shuddered. She was serious.   


“He is no king any more.”   


“Regardless,” Chantari said, stepping forward. “We would meet with the Banshee Queen. We have a deal for her.”   


“And,” deeper voice started. She shifted to gaze at Nathanos and noted Varian's shudder as the undead's red eyes pierced him. “What kind of deal could you possibly offer the queen? Hmm? Your only ship just left.”   


“We seek an alliance,” Varian said this time, swallowing down the odd feeling. “To save Lady Jaina Proudmoore and her forces to the South. Also, we have information about Garrosh's forces.”   


“They are to the north, ransacking Arathi and Hillsbrad,” Vereesa muttered.   


“No,” Chantari shook her head. “We intercepted orders on the way here, the full might of the army is to collapse upon your army and trap you.”   


“Nonsense!” Nathanos grunted. “Our army is bigger than his.”   


“Is it?” Chantari asked, peering out from her hood. “The undead do not rise again once they fall, Nathanos Blightcaller,” she said quietly. “Garrosh always has new men and women for his war machine. Sylvanas does not.”   


He frowned at her, a sharp glare which threatened her to say any more on that subject. She was right, Sylvanas' power to raise the undead was weakening, their army grew smaller and smaller.   


Footsteps, clicking of heels on stone caused both to look up. Varian felt sick seeing Sylvanas stroll down towards them casually, this was his city, this was-- he felt livid. Chantari remained impassive, but kept her eyes on her as she moved to stand at the edge of the remaining battlement.   


“Varian Wrynn,” she said, her lips a slight smirk. “I must confess, you've outdone me in returning from the dead.” He grunted in response. “Come now, that's hardly polite. Don't you have something to ask me?”   


“We need your army,” he said, cutting to the point.   


“No.”   


“You don't understand,” he said again. “We must defeat Garrosh. The nightmare-”   


“Is not my problem.”   


“It is,” Chantari hissed. “If you somehow manage to defeat Garrosh, all that is left of this world will be a corrupted remnant of what it currently is. You may not revel in the thought of being a slave to Garrosh, but it is preferable than becoming part of the nightmare.”   


The banshee glanced at her. “And who are you?”   


“Garrosh seeks the aspects,” Varian spoke quickly. Sylvanas looked back at him. “Surely you want to stop him before he does?”   


“But you've given me all the information free of charge,” she mused. “What's to stop me from killing you both and turning my army around right now?”   


“Because I might have a way for your people to survive,” Chantari said significantly. Sylvanas' eyes widened slightly, but quickly composed her expression, but Chantari did not miss the glance she gave to Nathanos.   


“And who are you?” She repeated.   


Chantari lifted her hands up to slowly lower her hood. Vereesa gasped, taking a step backward. “I am Chantari, the youngest daughter of Lady Ysera. In return for your help in saving Jaina and stopping Garrosh, when my mother is free from the dream, I will ask for her aid, and the aid of the Dragon Queen, in finding a way to help your plight and give your people a future.”   


Sylvanas gulped.   


This was everything she'd wanted. A future for her people. She didn't miss the might in this girls sentence, and the old Sylvanas would have laughed at might be's, but this one-- this one who believed in hope-- she saw it. Yet, part of her found herself distrusting the dragon. She'd been crossed before, what was to stop her going back on her deal? Yet-- her eyes darted between the dragon and the human who seemed to cling to her. If she took the dragon... killed Varian, took Chantari, forced them to help... Perhaps? And yet the growing number of people following her all but echoed in her mind. The dragonflights might be weakened, but could they stop dragons if they decided to fight to get her back?   


“The aspects power is greatly diminished,” Nathanos pointed out.   


“Yes, but this wouldn't need their full powers,” Chantari said softly, staring at Sylvanas firmly. “I give you my word that I will seek their aid and do everything in my power to help.”   


The wind blew again as both Varian and Chantari watched Sylvanas. Vereesa remained in shock, watching both carefully; what would her sister do? Varian would never work with Garrosh, so they could rule out that being a trap. She glanced at Nathanos, he was as impassive as always, his eyes trained upon his queen.   


“If Garrosh's true army is as large as you claim, then how are we supposed to save Jaina?” Sylvanas asked, glancing between them, then at her sister. She nodded lightly, the signal to send word for her troops to pack up. “Surely this is her own problem for letting a spy into her midst.”   


“I would say the same,” Chantari offered. “But we need all the help we can get. Garrosh's army won't expect us to attack early, and they won't expect Varian to be with you, and they certainly won't expect the presence of a dragon upon the battlefield. Kalecgos is still with Jaina, no? He will help when he see's the fight turning.”   


“Hmm,” Sylvanas turned to the pair of them. “If only you had such a dashing aide before all of this,” she commented to the king. “Perhaps maybe you'd still have a home. Pity, isn't it?” She motioned to the rubble. “What do you want after all this is over? Most of your people have come to me.”   


What did he want? Varian thought of the days of being king and felt a pang in his chest. He'd give that up for Anduin to return. He looked around, he was unfit to be king, and it was something he no longer desired. His eyes trained upon Chantari and his lips turned up. “I don't want to be king,” he said simply. “It's not who I am anymore.”   


“Truly?”   


Varian let out a sigh. It was odd, he thought, being civil with her-- but she was different to how he remembered. She'd lost her ruthlessness, she hadn't demanded keeping Chantari prisoner to ensure she kept her word, or just taken her to experiment. She was, instead, negotiating properly, trusting allies. She was a better queen than he'd been king, he thought. “I will spend the rest of my days elsewhere. There are people in Northrend who need help.”   


Chantari smiled lightly, wanting to make a joke about how he could meet her mother, but a sickness fell within her stomach. She was hoping too much, thinking too much of the future, already certain they would make it past the next few weeks. The odds were against them, and yet, Sylvanas seemed willing and ready to listen. Maybe, just maybe, if they could get Malfurion back, she could once again believe in hope and in the future of the world.   


The wind blew her hair and Chantari closed her eyes as she inhaled. Undeath and life mixing together. Such an odd smell to be sure, but one that, perhaps, she could get used to.   


* * *

 

The ship was docked within the former town of Booty Bay.   


Once a bustling hub for pirates, and those neutral to the demands of a faction, now it was nothing but rubble. Garrosh had sought more goblins to his cause, and when they had refused, citing that they value their freedom, the warchief had burned it all.   


Jaina stood at the bow of the ship, the night air playing with her hair. It was surprisingly still. It reminded her of Theramore in the wake of the destruction. Nothing left, just rubble, bodies, debris in the water, the only signs life ever existed here before. It was odd, she thought, usually the sea air calmed her, the rocking ship soothed her, but she was anxious and restless and her unborn baby just as much so.   


The mage put her hand on her enlarged stomach and sighed. “You're scared,” she said outloud. “But you don't need to be. Your mama and papa will protect you. We will make a world for you to live in safely,” she said, her voice a whisper, yet it seemed loud as though the wind amplified it.   


Jaina didn't want to admit that things were a mess. Still no word from Mathias, and a few of the druid agents who had followed her had vanished now, too. Velen had spoken out against the plan of meeting Garrosh's army; was he right, she wondered. She closed her blue eyes and sighed; if this led to their death it was her fault. She was a good leader, she had thought before. Theramore had done well, she had tried to lead fair and justly; but what had it gotten her?   


Death. Destruction.   


“It's cold,” Kalec's voice came. She sighed softly as his hands rubbed her bare arms to warm her up. “You should come inside, where it's warmer.”   


“Sitting there doing nothing makes me restless,” She admitted. “What if I made the wrong choice?”   


The dragon sighed, kissing her cheek, before moving to lean on the side of the ship. He watched the dead town. “I'll protect you,” he said firmly. “You and our baby.”   


“But what about the others?”   


“I don't care about them,” he muttered.   


“They are my people-”   


“They are scared people living on borrowed time,” he looked at her sharply. Then, realising he was taking his worries out on her, sighed and offered a small apology. She took his hand and squeezed it softly; she understood, she was scared too. “If we stayed there, we would have run out of food if Garrosh hadn't come for us. We would die no matter what we did. If we die tomorrow... at least we died trying to stop him. Just like Tyrande.”   


He watched as she moved around the edge of the ship. Pregnant, but still graceful. She seemed to glow these days, it was difficult to take his eyes from her; both wanting to keep her safe, and wanting to admire her all at once. “Where do you think Varian is?”   


“He's dead,” Kalec said softly. “Otherwise he would be here.”   


“Would he?” she asked. “The more I stand in his shoes the more I realise how much he must have hated it. If he could die.. would he want to come back? Anduin's death... was my fault as much as anyone's,” She said, her voice breaking. She couldn't get it out of her mind, his small body, broken, cold, still-- she inhaled. As a soon to be mother, she understood Varian's grief more than ever. She couldn't blame him for his reaction. “It destroyed him. He lost his wife, his son... maybe he's done with losing.”   


“So he let's us deal with his mess?”   


“Thrall is gone, too,” Jaina pointed out. “I haven't heard from him in months, ever since he and Cairne went off in search of something or someone to stop Garrosh. Now Mathias is gone. Tyrande is dead, Garrosh has Malfurion. Genn is dead... Velen...” she sighed. “He only stays because he's worried about me and the baby. The dwarves secluded themselves within Blackrock and Ironforge. Who knows where the gnomes are, hiding in Gnomeregan I suppose.”   


“And most of the others followed Sylvanas,” Kalec finished for her.   


“I can't blame them,” Jaina said, a small laugh in her voice. “What could we offer them? At least she still has her city. We don't have anything, now the druids have vanished too. We have no spies, we have nothing, Kalec, I brought our people here to die.”   


He said nothing. He couldn't. Yet, he wanted to point out that a miracle could still happen, one just like their unborn child. Instead, he moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders tightly and kissed her temple. If anyone survived tomorrow it had to be them; he didn't care about anyone else, about himself, or about these 'people'. It was irresponsible, he guessed, he was a leader himself, but the blue dragons had receded and all but vanished into the world. He'd gotten no word from Wymrest since Varian had gone. As far as he knew, he was alone in this. Yet, maybe, maybe if Northrend was so far safe... he could whisk her off if things went bad and take her there. This world wasn't one where they had the luxury of looking after others, he had to think of himself; of his wife, of his child first.   


And if that meant giving up the lives of everyone else here, he'd do it.


	9. Hollow Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took some time; wanted to update one of the Anduin stories, but this happened. Also I'm super sorry about the double spacing, idk how to fix it at all ;;

Jaina had never enjoyed war. It wasn't handed down to her from her father; she was not that type of person. She had befriended Thrall rather than capture him. She did not like fighting, bloodshed had always seemed needless to her, but, as she breathed in the early morning air of Stranglethorn Vale, Jaina Proudmoore couldn't help but wonder how differently things would have turned out had she been more like her father.

 

She gave pause, her hand resting on her swollen stomach.

 

Her father came to mind and she gulped, trying not to let the flashes of the remains of Theramore into her mind. Pregnancy made her magic temperamental, and thinking about her home, her people, her friends, and her family-- it all made her mad. Not mad in the Kalec hogged the blanket all night mad, but mad as in she wanted to teleport to Orgrimmar and unleash a hellfire upon everything that moved; the men, the women, the children... Garrosh. It made her a monster, she knew that, and so she took a deep breath to calm herself. The children were innocent, as a mother to be, she knew that well. She also knew their mothers would fight to the end for them, that they would do anything to protect their offspring. The men?

 

Her blue eyes peered out at the small amount of troops waiting along the coast line. Just men following orders. They would kill people on her orders. They were not responsible; she was. And so it was Garrosh, and that disgusting waste of life, Gallywix, that were to blame, and they were the two she would set her sights upon.

 

Of course, there was no hope, she knew that. They had far fewer troops than she had originally thought. A lot of the remaining Alliance had chosen to break away when they'd heard of her suicide plan of engaging Garrosh within Stranglethorn. They were making their way north to Sylvanas, for the only hope of a maybe life. The mage had mixed feelings. On one hand, could she blame them? No one wanted to die, not here, not for no reason... but where would they run to? Sylvanas wouldn't be safe forever, and Jaina wondered just where they would run to when Garrosh uprooted them. Northrend? The mage snorted. Perhaps they'd run to wherever to was that Mathias, Thrall, and Baine had gotten to. She believed they should fight, but she knew it was a bit much for her-- she could vanish whenever she wanted, and her people didn't have a protective Dragon constanly on the look out and ready to whisk her off.

 

“You are doubting your decision,” a gentle, deep voice came.

 

Jaina's fingers twitched as she turned her head towards Velen. A lot of the Draenei had stayed behind at the Exodar. She wasn't stupid; she knew they hoped to fix the ship and to fly away, to leave them behind. Yet, Velen stayed with her, out of concern for the unborn child... and yet... yet he soothed her. He was wise, and gentle, and warm, and he reminded her so much of--

 

Tears stung at her eyes and she looked away. She missed Anduin, she missed him dearly, but she supposed it was better he had not lived to see the world like this. His heart would break, he would cry for peace, he would probably die at Garrosh's hands pleading him to listen. It was when she thought of the young boy that she doubted herself more. He would be disappointed in her.

 

But, he wasn't there. And neither was Varian, and she had to make do with what they'd left behind. Only, what could you make from nothing?

 

“They will die,” she said, her voice hollow.

 

“They know.”

 

“So why do they stay?”

 

“Because, perhaps, they are ready,” Velen murmured. “There is only so long a people can run from their fate before they decide to let it consume them. Running is only good as long as you have some place to go.” The priest paused and stepped forward to put his hands on the side of the ship. He let out a deep sigh. “Where do you suppose they have to go?”

 

“Nowhere,” Jaina said softly, sorrow filling her voice. Then, the unmistakable sound of Orcish war horns blared in the distance, and her sorrow filled gaze turned to one of fury and determination. Her home was gone, their homes were gone. And it was about time they took out their fury on the only one they could.

 

Yet, as Garrosh's troops filed out into the opening, Jaina felt quite sick. “There are so many,” Kalec hissed, coming up on her other side. “So many orcs follow him.”

 

“Follow him?” Velen asked, shaking his head. “Look on the faces of his people, they are not followers. They've just-”

 

“Seen what happens if you defy him,” Jaina muttered. Perhaps they could be reasoned with, but, a voice within her reasoned that if Tyrande could not inspire them, that if she could do nothing.... What hope did anyone have?

 

An eerie silence fell amongst the trees. Even the waves lapping on the beach seemed to fall silent. If Garrosh was in the mess of Orcs, Jaina could not tell, not instantly. Then, a loud gruff laughter came as a break in the ranks came. He pushed through his people, grunting as he often pushed some down onto the ground. Gorehowl in his hand.

 

“Jaina Proudmoore,” he drawled, a cruel grin upon his face. “And a dragon, and! Prophet Velen, I get three for one today. I wonder which collection I should add you to, hmm?” When there was no response, he laughed again. “Not curious? I wonder, shall you join that bitch Tyrande, or shall I reaquaint you with your spymaster?”

 

“What have you done with Master Shaw, monster?!” Jaina demanded, moving forward.

 

“Oh he's _alive_ ,” Garrosh said simply, his axe resting on his shoulder lazily. He seemed more monstrous than ever, and he had a gleam in his eye; he was playing a game, she realised, one she was probably playing into. He looked over her forces and tutted. “What would Varian say at this pitiful force? Look at the fear in their faces!” He looked back at his own troops, some of them howled with laughter, others echoed the disgust and hatred upon Jaina's face.

 

If only someone could inspire them to fight against Garrosh, she thought. She couldn't do that, Varian could have, but Varian... her stomach tightened. This was it, wasn't it? This was where it ended. Perhaps it was better like this, her son or daughter... they would not need to see this world, not need to live in fear, and certainly not-- She reached behind her to grab Kalec's hand and frowned as she looked back at him. “Kalecgos?” she whispered, unsure of the look on his face.

 

“Something is coming,” he whispered. “I smell undeath.”

 

Sylvanas.

 

The forsaken descended upon Garrosh's forces almost instantly. They'd arrived unheard, and unseen, the Banshee queen herself blowing her horn after the initial ambush, atop a warhorse. Jaina stared in shock; there were night elves amongst the ranks, humans too. Nathanos Blightcaller was commanding troops at the front, and Vereesa was organising the Blood elves and a few high elves. Garrosh's army suddenly seemed smaller, and Garrosh's face was nothing short of rage. Jaina let herself smirk out of satisfaction, not allowing herself to ponder the result of Sylvanas' appearance.

 

“Oh dear,” The banshee queen's voice came out, loud and clear through the still air. Troops were fighting, but Jaina felt as if many of the Orcs were giving up-- at least the ones who seemed to be disgusted by Garrosh. “What's this? Did we surprise you?”

 

“Nothing of the sort, witch!” Garrosh barked.

 

“Well I'm sorry to disappoint then,” Sylvanas purred. Vereesa laughed. Why was she laughing, Jaina wondered? Their army was still smaller, even if it had evened out the odds a lot, and this wasn't all of Garrosh's troops. It was odd, Jaina thought, Sylvanas seemed... happy? And if there was one thing she knew, it was if Sylvanas was happy--

 

“Kalec?” she whispered.

 

“Shh,” he urged. “There's something else.”

 

“He's right,” Velen said, peering through the trees. There was a tension, and then-- gasps broke out amongst the ranks of Jaina's troops and Garrosh's.

 

The mages pink lips parted as Varian Wrynn rode up next to Sylvanas, shoulders back, looking smaller than he once had, but still mighty. Her heart stuck in her throat. Varian Wrynn was alive, and hope seemed to flare up within her. It was funny, she thought, she should be livid at him, absolutely furious, but she was so relieved to see him, she bit out a sob and grabbed Velen's hand in response, as if she wasn't sure it wasn't a dream.

 

“Is this it?!” Garrosh yelled. “A washed up king I killed once? Get a grip of yourselves, men!” He barked at his troops. “He has no mighty weapon this time! Shalamayne sits in Ogrimmar.”

 

“Oh?” Sylvanas drawled.

 

The hair on the back of Jaina's neck stood on end. She still had a trick up her sleeve. The plague? No... Varian would never agree to that, but, then again, she thought that Varian would never have run off as he did. Sylvanas was confident.

 

“Is this your great surprise, Banshee?” Garrosh mocked her. “Is this your weapon?! I'm not impressed!”

 

“No, this isn't my weapon at all, Hellscream,” Sylvanas said, her voice purring softly. “This is.”

 

The sight of a Dragon was not new to Jaina. She was used to the black dragons of Dustwallow, and she often saw Kalec's true form when needed. But she had not expected the sight of a huge green dragon flying overhead, roaring as it set fire to one of Garrosh's supply caravans at the back. Suddenly, Sylvanas' confidence was catching. They could beat him.

 

“Chantari!” Kalec said loudly, staring in shock. “I thought-- but--” he looked at Jaina, eyes wide, and for the first time in a long time, she noted they were full of hope. “Two dragons are better than one. Please stay safe, my love.”

 

“Make sure you get Garrosh,” She muttered, squeezing his hands as she kissed his cheek. She found herself amiss as he flew off himself, the force of his wings almost causing her to fall over had it not been for the Draenei. She should join in, but Velen had forbid it; she was far too pregnant, and if there was one thing needed now, it was more life.

 

It was bloody. Two Dragon's, the banshee queen and her sister, Varian Wrynn, all furious and all-- winning? Some Orc's were giving up, she noted, willingly being taken off by Sylvanas' forces. Varian cut through the orc army, making his way towards the ship. “Jaina!”

 

She pursed her lips.

 

The king flashed her a grin and she blinked in surprise. “You can be mad at me later, don't pretend like you're not happy to see me and my dragon.”

 

It was odd, the last time she had seen him he was so broken and so defeated. But now-- now he was his old self, different somehow, his eyes hollow and as if some part of him was never coming back, but-- “Your dragon?” Velen asked, his voice more curt than Jaina would have thought. They were all bitter at Varian, if not glad for his appearance. If there was one person who could inspire people, it was him.

 

“Jaina, come with me,” he said, offering her his hand. “I'll get you to safety. Sylvanas' camp is just North-”

 

“Have you been with her the entire time?” Jaina spat. “Since when are you two best friends?”

 

Varian let out an annoyed sigh, pushing some of his hair from his face. The green dragon flew overhead and roared, and he paused for a second to stare at her. “No,” he answered. “I only met with Sylvanas two days ago.”

 

“And she just happened to help you? Sylvanas-”

 

“Is changed,” he finished for her, sighing. “I was hesitant to believe it myself, and I spent the first night in her camp worried I was going to be stabbed in my sleep. She did not agree so easily-- does it matter? She is here, we can get you to safety.”

 

“I want to be here when Garrosh-”

 

A blood curdling scream broke off Jaina's sentence, one followed by a scream that could only belong to a banshee. Jaina felt cold-- she did not want to know what had happened, but she could guess. She stared anxiously up at Kalec, hoping, and praying to whatever light still remained, that he would be unharmed. He almost seemed to dance with the other dragon as they flew together-- the green dragon seemingly trying to get to Varian and--

 

Garrosh was making a beeline for the ship, his axe covered in blood.

 

They had noticed too late and he was going to get to Varian before anyone could stop him.

 

Jaina's scream vanished in her throat as he lifted Gorehowl. She tried to charge a spell, but she wouldn't be quick enough.

 

The green dragon overhead roared, and, before the axe could connect with human flesh, a sickening sound filled her ears. Horror filled her sight, tears, anger, frustration, all as Gorehowl sunk into the neck of the large blue dragon.

 

Jaina was a skilled mage. She knew some basic time magic, but right then, she wondered if perhaps the bronze dragons had appeared. It all stood still. At least, she thought it did, because all she could do was watch the dragon cry in pain as he sunk to the ground. She heard commotion, she heard the roaring of the other dragon, she could feel flames, she--

 

“Kalecgos,” she gasped out, blinking the short distance onto the shore to his side. “Oh, no-” she sobbed out, trying to push her hands against the wound to stop the bleeding, but it was too big, and her hands were sticky with blood. “You idiot!” she sobbed. He stared at her lazily. “Why would you do this?! What about our child?!”

 

“Move your hands,” a soft voice commanded. “Please, Lady Proudmoore-” Jaina turned to the stranger; a high elf with horns, the green dragon she assumed. “Please!” She begged. “I need to see the wound, I can-” she moved in beside the mage, her hands replacing hers.

 

Jaina let her; she was trying to heal him, the green light, the pain on her face-- Jaina choked out, kneeling at Kalec's head. He was trying to nuzzle against her stomach. She wondered if she should stand up, if she should find Garrosh and kill him on the spot-- where was he? Where was Varian? “Where-”

 

“Varian took him off,” the dragon said, eyes firm on Kalec's neck. “Kalec, you're seriously going to-” she swore in a language Jaina had heard frequently. Draconic was weird to mortals, she could understand pieces, but it was such a muddle in her head; as though it were forbidden for her to actually know the words.

 

“Can you help him?” Jaina sobbed out, stroking Kalec's snout softly. Funny, she thought, she should be crying more, but, maybe she'd used all her tears up. Part of her still thought it was a dream perhaps, that this was nothing-- “You can help him, right?”

 

“No,” the dragon whispered, standing back, Kalec's blood thick on her hands. “My magic is too weak, if the nightmare-” she swore again, her eyes glowing a green as she clenched her fists tightly. Furious.

 

Jaina was furious, too, and she stood up. “I'm going to kill that orc, I'm going to make it painful and I want the location of Mathias and Malfurion, and-” she inhaled.

 

“Please,” Velen's soft voice came, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You must think of the baby.”

 

“He wants to be with you,” the dragon said quietly. “Lend him your magic, he will be able to return to his mortal form-” her head snapped up. “My healing abilities are needed elsewhere... I am sorry, Lady Proudmoore...” There was guilt on her face, pain-- she squeezed Jaina's shoulders before disappearing into the thick mass of fighting.

 

Why were people still fighting? Jaina wondered. Hadn't they gotten Garrosh? Had he gotten away? She felt an indignant rage and wanted to turn and scream at them all for it but-- “He needs you,” Velen urged.

 

Kalec.

 

Jaina turned to her mate and gave him a sad smile. “Why would you do such a thing?” she whispered, gently flowing her magic into him. He felt so weak to her, but she could feel the magic in his body dispersing into the air, almost making her feel more powerful herself. Somehow it was worse when he was in his mortal form, the blood seemed to be worse, a slash across the top of his chest.

She sat beside him and held his hand, and found there was no reply to be had from him. Instead, one hand came to rest on her stomach, and using the last of his breath, he sang softly to her and his unborn baby.

 

–

 

Sylvanas Windrunner thought it was a dark sort of irony that she would be the last Windrunner sister to be walking Azeroth. She thought that, because if she didn't find a dark humour in he sisters body in front of her, she thought she may kill anything which moved.

 

Vereesa was smaller than she thought. Little moon. Sylvanas gulped down. She couldn't cry any more, but she knew what the emotion was she was feeling, and she knew if she could-- her fingers ran through her sisters beautiful hair as she pulled her head into her lap. She'd watched the arrow pierce her, then the five others before she could react. They'd been laughing and joking, having a contest to who could shoot their bow fastest; who could kill the most orcs. Vereesa's scream of pain had only triggered her sister's fury; the revenge she sought upon all the archers, even the ones who cried for mercy. _Especially_ the ones who cried for mercy.

 

Undeath was unpleasant, but recently, she'd started to find a form of... joy. A reason for continuing such a half existence. To have her sister back with her had almost seemed to make her feel more alive again. To laugh, to smile again, to find joy in little jokes. To truly hope again. At least for a time. It was late at night in the undercity, when the living amongst the dead slept, that Vereesa often came into her private chambers. She couldn't sleep alone any more. She would cry often, she missed her husband, she missed her sons, she missed Alleria, she missed Silvermoon-- she would cling to her sister until she fell silent and asleep, as Sylvanas sung softly to her.

 

Her sisters pain had been what made Sylvanas fight as hard as she had been.

 

If she was honest, she had found peace in the idea of Garrosh killing her once and for all. After all, there had been no reason to fight-- queen of what? Nothing after Garrosh was done. So she waited in the entrance of Lordaeron day and night, never moving from the throne. She thought about her life, and her death, and then her undeath. She didn't regret a thing, only the plans she had yet to carry out. She waited. Nathanos tried to move her from her melancholy, but he soon stopped wishing to fight back himself. His troops lost frequently against Garrosh.

 

It was only the arrival of Vereesa and those that remained of the silver covenant which pulled her out of it. Which inspired the fight in her. This... army, this group of living and dead mixed together, this... hope, it was all built on the idea of her little moon.

 

And now what?

 

“I'll do everything to bring you back,” she whispered out, caressing her sisters cheek softly.

 

Vereesa shook her head weakly, eyes peering up. “Please... don't. I can... see Rhonin.... and my sons again,” she coughed, closing her eyes and heaving a deep breath. “I feel at peace.”

 

She was jealous, and she was furious, Sylvanas knew. Yet, how could she deny it from her sister? The peace? Because she didn't want to be alone? Sure she had Nathanos but-- but--

 

It was unfair, Sylvanas thought. Yet she couldn't forget each night singing her sister to sleep, and she knew she could not do that to her. More than ever, Sylvanas cursed her broken form. She screamed out in frustration. She could not cry or show her grief any other way! “Do something!” she yelled when she watched Chantari hurry pass, hands covered in blood.

 

The fighting had stopped long ago, the sun was at midday. Garrosh had escaped, Sylvanas had been told. She hadn't thought about it yet, she refused to let her sister be alone as she-- as she died.

 

Chantari gave her a sad smile, knowing that it was far too late for the elf. Too many people had died for... for nothing. Kalec-- she hid her face from the banshee and hurried off to the edge of the camp. Some of the night elves called for her, but she passed them and head straight to the large tent in the centre.

 

Varian was stood over some maps. He was covered in blood and scratches, she noticed he had some nasty cuts on his arms but other than that-- she hurried to his side and melted against his chest instantly. Dragon's lived very long lives, and so they felt emotions much slower than mortals. It had always been a source of wonder to her, to watch how brightly mortals would be before burning out, and she often envied it of them. But Tyrande-- that had been instant, and it had lasted a long time, and now Kalec-- Kalec.

 

He frowned. “You were... close with Kalec?”

 

“Once,” Chantari whispered, closing her eyes against him. A moment of peace between them. He was mad at himself for letting Garrosh go, but she had seen the maps before she'd gone to him, he was already planning to counter attack Orgrimmar. That had been the plan from the start; route Garosh here, force him into a retreat, regroup and then attack him in Durotar before he could form a plan. They would find Malfurion, and they would bring Garrosh to justice. Yet, Chantari found all she wanted to do was stop.

 

She was tired of losing.

 

“He was a good friend of mine. He had the same fascination with mortals that I did, he taught me a lot about them before I joined Tyrande. I had a silly crush on him when I was younger, but he's blue and I am green, and in that life time...” she sighed, looking up at him. He looked haggard and gruff, and she raised her hand gently to his cheek. He welcomed the warm feeling of her healing spell. It was entirely unlike Anduin's, it wasn't warm and bright, but somehow gentle and slow. He wanted to point out that he didn't need healing, that she should save her energy, but somehow he felt she needed to do this. “He saved your life.”

 

“He saved yours, Chantari,” Varian said. “You would have done it if not him. It was my fault-”

 

“No,” she shook her head. “It was his choice. I... don't know how to look Lady Proudmoore in the face, she is... more pregnant than I had thought.”

 

Varian frowned. “How is she?”

 

“Faring better than I think Sylvanas is,” she whispered, eyes dropping. “It must be awful... to not be able to grieve properly.”

 

“Speak like that and people may think you feel pity for her.”

 

“Pity?” Chantari asked, snapping her head up and moving back a little. “No. It's sympathy, Varian. Could you imagine not being able to grieve for your son? To be trapped in such an unchanging state, no way to stop it, to just... feel it but not express it? I don't pity her, but I do want to help her, more than ever.”

 

She wondered if that was what she even wanted now. Life.

 

Suddenly, Chantari roared, knocking a few books off the table. “What good is a victory when it's at such a cost?!”

 

“We knew people would-”

 

“But I should be able to save them! I did nothing! More people died than I helped-” she clenched her fists tightly, her claws cutting her skin but-- he watched her sadly. She expressed grief through anger, in a physical way like this. He took her wrists gently, grunting when she tried to pull away, and held her to him. He didn't know what to say, what words could soothe her? She'd lost a lot, everyone had, and he felt he understood; there wasn't much left to even be saved now, so to lose some parts that you truly wanted to-- she hit his chest firmly, but he stood there, silently, until she slowly relaxed against him, face buried into his neck.

 

“Garrosh will burn,” she said so quietly he wasn't sure he was even supposed to hear it. He wondered if he should worry at the dark edge to her voice, and his eyes shot up, worried a figment of the nightmare would emerge from the dark corners of the tent. He wanted to agree with her, yet the thought of his son softened him. The past few days he'd found a peace he wasn't aware he'd still had. Walking the ruins of Stormwind, he'd been surprised to find the cathedral mostly intact. It was there that Anduin seemed still alive to him, the place that was most like him. Warm, peaceful, standing still as a beacon of hope amidst all the fighting and war, destruction and violence.

 

Yet he didn't have it in him to urge her to show the orc mercy. He didn't want it himself; even if it was what Anduin would have been proud of him for. Anduin was not there, Tyrande was gone, Genn was gone, now Kalec and Vereesa, and countless other people. He couldn't help but wonder, though, just what was going to be left of them as people after this was over? How would they cope? No one to fight against, a world to rebuild but few people to rebuild it with. People would form new bonds, but they weren't always the same, and--

 

Chantari pulled from him and rubbed her face. “I need to spend some time alone in the jungle,” she whispered.

 

“Are you sure that's safe?”

 

“I'm a big strong dragon,” she choked out, giving him a small smile. “I have my bow. I'll be back before nightfall.”

 

She paused at the entrance and gave him a lingering look. What would be left of her when all this was over? He thought, with horror, what was going to happen to her if they could not save her mother? If the rest of her flight fell to the nightmare? And, he thought with a sickening shiver, what if she fell to the nightmare herself? He had no time to wonder, suddenly finding himself the only one in any state to keep this whole thing together. Sylvanas would be fine soon, she'd want revenge, and Jaina, too, once she had grieved, would be a woman hell hath no fury like. If there was one thing he knew, it was that he wouldn't need to convince anyone that Garrosh needed to pay.

 


End file.
